


Wormwood (Artemisia vulgaris)

by Arisprite



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Demons, Gen, Post Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-23 16:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arisprite/pseuds/Arisprite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fall, Castiel makes a life for himself, cloaked in the kindness of strangers and is determined not to be found. However, a run in with an old and unorthodox demon hurls him back into the Winchester’s lives and face to face with his own past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Troubles of Life Are Many

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to my oneshot The Kindness of Strangers, which was only supposed to be a oneshot. But Castiel kept doing things, so it continued to ten chapters. Look for updates.

Castiel cursed to eternal damnation whoever it was that invented alarm clocks. Four months human, and he had yet to become used to either sleeping or waking. When it was time to sleep, he’d lie there for hours before sinking into ceaseless nightmares, or he’d get fed up and drink himself to sleep, only to have a terrible hangover the next morning. Either way, coffee was an essential, if he didn’t want to be late for work, and he was always tired anyway.

Castiel shifted in his small, hard bed, trying to find that same comfortable feeling he’d had right before the alarm on his phone had jolted him awake. Giving up, he rolled over onto his back, and stared at the ceiling, the heaviness of his eyes telling him he hadn’t had nearly enough sleep...then again, he never did. He rubbed his hands up into his coarse hair (he needed a shower, damn) and sighed. There was discolored patch of mold above him, and a crack ran right through it. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed it before. 

He’d certainly fallen far, both literally and figuratively. Castiel wondered if anyone looking at him now, Cas Novak, who cleaned floors at a community center and lived in a tiny room that often as not had him hitting his head on the slanted ceiling, had ever been something more? Who would ever see this man who drank too much, and never smiled, and sometimes sobbed all night and think, there was a servant of the Lord. 

He huffed, and pushed himself upright. Not likely. 

Turning his mind from those thoughts, Castiel stretched his back, feeling the scrubbing of the night before (someone had gotten soda all over the floor in the center’s kitchen, and then proceeded to track dirt all over it). He picked up his cheap phone, and then groaned aloud. 

5:00 PM. 

He worked the night shift, but he usually tried to get up before sleeping the whole day away so that he could do his research and run errands...so much for that today. His shift started at six, and he’d have to hurry if he wanted to shower and eat. Castiel shoved the rest of the sweaty covers off, and staggered over to his tiny bathroom. 

It had been strange set of circumstances that led him here, living in a rented attic room, cleaning a community center for a living, in a small town in Illinois. After leaving the diner, Castiel had had no idea of what to do; no money, no food or water and no help. Dean lingered in the back of his mind, but Castiel just _couldn’t_ go back. Not after everything he’d done to Dean, not after doing everything that Dean told him not to do, _again_. He’d chosen wrong, trusted the wrong person, and screwed everything up, as usual. No, Dean was better off without him. Castiel had told himself that he’d get by. And, due to the kindness of others, mostly he had. 

He’d spent the first few nights on the streets, huddled into doorways to try to keep warm in the cool May darkness. He scavenged food, and spent the small bit of money he’d had. Then, on the third day as a human, dirty and starving, he’d found another homeless man. With a smile, he directed the tattered Castiel towards a soup kitchen in a community center a few blocks away. He’d gone, and received food, clothes and more kindness (sending him to tears again, as he’d never before realized just how good humanity could be). 

Castiel had ended up staying. Advice and a bed to sleep in, turned into doing odd jobs to pay for his keep, and then when a janitor resigned, a full time position. With that came more money, and he rented this room on another tip, within a few blocks of the building he worked in, and close to grocery store and most exciting, the library. His boss, Angela was willing to overlook his lack of papers, and his landlord had never even asked. Some day, he knew he’d have to get legal documentation, but for now he had a job, and income and a roof over his head. It was probably more than his siblings had. 

And that was his long term goal. He wanted to get into a place where he could look for his siblings, help them. At the library, he’s learned how to use the computers, and so he spent his days off researching, making list after list of possible locations of his family, checking records all over the world, trying to find them. It was lucky he could still understand the languages of the world, as he often found himself traversing news articles in Russian, Mandarin, Spanish or Arabic. His immobility chafed at him, so he was saving money for driving lessons, and then eventually to buy a car.

All in all, for having nothing but the clothes on his back four months ago, Castiel thought he was doing rather well. Not comfortable, not happy by any means...but alright. 

His humanity was an unending source of hardship, with painful or uncomfortable new things every day. Castiel thanked ...whoever, for the woman at the library for showing him the internet, for not only had it been useful in his work locating his siblings, but also in adjusting to this human life. Thanks to google, he knew what sort of things to buy at the store, things that would save him money, and last a while, while still feeding him adequately. He learned to cook simple things, and how to treat the cold he developed a month ago. He learned various remedies for his insomnia (not that they did much good) and that he probably had PTSD (since he couldn’t afford a therapist, not that he could tell them anything without being locked away, he decided to ignore this particular bit of information). He tried not to remember what he’d read of the results of self medication when he downed another shot before bed, or swallowed over the counter anxiety medicine. It was effective, and that was what mattered. 

Once Castiel had eaten and packed a snack for later, he headed off to walk the few blocks to work. Castiel didn’t live in the best neighborhood, but it was usually only the walk back in the dead of night that he felt the need to keep his hand on his silver knife (a purchase which he’d made as soon as possible, as he hated to be so unarmed). He clocked in on the dot, said hello to the receptionist as she packed up, and went to gather his supplies. The cleaning he found to be extremely boring, but at times the satisfaction of a shiny floor did make him feel he was doing something worthwhile. He scrubbed, or mopped or polished while listening to the little radio he’d inherited from the previous janitor. Not much played in the middle of the night, but he did have a few favored stations. 

Castiel rolled up the sleeves of his blue jumpsuit, and started on his task list for the night. He took frequent pauses to drink the coffee he’d brought until it was gone, and he felt a little more alive.   
It had been bad trying to sleep that day. He’d gotten home from work about three in the morning, and fell into his bed, only to be still awake hours later. He’d finally passed into an uneasy sleep,   
punctuated by nightmares and terrors that left him guilt stricken and sobbing. He gulped a too large quantity of liquor, but even that hadn’t given him the oblivion he’s craved, instead he’d just had less linear and more terrifying nightmares.

Shaking his head, he focused on cleaning, and turned up the music. Castiel actually enjoyed this part. Past a certain hour, he was alone in the building, and he found the solitude pleasing. He’d blast the radio, allowing the hosts to chat with each other, or play various types of music through the long lonely hours. He was indiscriminate as far as genre, except he avoided the rock that reminded him of Dean, and most things he found himself humming along. 

Right now the station he’d chosen was just switching to “a long set of love songs for you and your honey...” when it was interrupted by a burst of static. Castiel stopped his mop, and turned to squint at the box radio. The signal here should have been fine; he’d never had a problem before. Castiel stepped towards the cart where the radio was placed, as the static increased, blocking out most of the song playing. A shiver of unease was starting to thread through him, as he pondered all the things that made radios crackle. (He tried not to think about how he’d been included in that list until a few months ago). It wasn’t angelic, could never be again, and so far as he knew Hell was closed (he also tried not to think about what that could have meant for Sam Winchester). Ghosts?

Reaching into his pocket, he grasped the silver knife, despite knowing how little defense it actually was. He wished furiously for his grace or even just his angel blade, but that had been lost when he fell. Castiel hadn’t hunted as a human, he’d never thought himself qualified, and frankly he was concerned about getting himself on his feet, rather than seeking out the monsters still left in this world. He didn't live in ignorance; he had salt lines and sigils for protection at his apartment, but he’d never thought to make heavy precautions here at work. He supposed (he made a face) one had to account for _human error_.

He turned to get the road salt from the supply closet, but before he could even rotate completely, the radio snapped off, and every hair on his body rose. Castiel whipped around, and saw a figure standing by his cart. Not a ghost, but a man, dressed in black jeans and leather, and grinning maliciously. His lingering instincts (he wasn’t sure if it was just human, or if there was some speck of angel still left) could tell that he was _wrong_. A blink, and beetled black eyes confirmed him a demon. Out of Hell? _Had_ Sam closed the gates?

“Well, well, well,” He said, stepping closer. Castiel edged sideways, keeping the cart between them. “When I heard there was an ex-cloudhopper scrubbing floors around here, I never expected it to be famous old Castiel. Not so angelic anymore, are we?”

Castiel felt a rush of ice go through him, both at how quickly he’d recognized him, as well as at the implication that the demons were hunting falling angels.

The demon laughed, sliding his hands into his jacket pockets. 

“It’s Cas now, right? I know how much you liked the nickname your boyfriend gave you.” 

Castiel fingered the hilt of his blade, standing very straight. He tried not to react at the mention of Dean. 

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.” He said mildly. The demon laughed. 

“We’ve not met, but I heard a lot about you from Crowley.”

“So you’re working for him?” 

He blinked at Castiel, and then burst in a hard laugh, his hand coming up to rest on his stomach.

“Whoo, no. Wow, you’re really out of the loop.” He said, pretending to wipe tears of laughter from his eyes. “Crowley’s gone, last I heard. Humanized and killed by your Sammy. No, my name is Abraxas, and I serve Abaddon.”

Castiel furrowed his brow. 

“She’s been missing for decades.” But Abraxas was shaking his head, smiling widely. 

“Not so, my dear angel. She’s returned, and she’s implemented much change down below. She released the old generals. Myself included,” He gave a little bow, and then a strange full body shiver. 

“Oh, it’s so good to be upstairs again. It’s been so long.”

Castiel shifted to the side, as Abraxas slid closer to him, still using the cart as a barrier. 

“So, what do you want with me?” Castiel asked. 

Abraxas put his finger to his chin, wincing dramatically. 

“Oo, well orders are to kill any of you wing boys we find,” He laughed when Castiel couldn’t hide a flash of alarm for his siblings. “But, seeing as it’s you, and Abaddon had a _thing_ against those Winchester boys, well... I’m thinking that might call for a different plan of action.”

Castiel’s heart was hammering, palms slick fisted in his pockets. He was far too aware of the distance between them, at how easily the demon could cross that and attack. He didn’t enjoy this human reaction in the face of danger. There was a separate pit of fear and worry that churned up when he spoke of Dean. 

“Dean doesn’t know I’m alive.” Castiel said, but Abraxas clicked his tongue regretfully. 

“We’ll just have to fix that, won’t we?”

Abraxas flung his arm out, sending the cart slamming into Castiel’s side. He gasped, grabbing the sides, trying to ride it back. His radio smashed to the ground, earning him a little pang of sadness. The cart skidded down the hallway, with Castiel on the front of it, before banging into a wall, causing Castiel to let go with another gasp. He stumbled to a stop, his side smarting, but still on his feet. 

The demon was standing, watching with glee, but moved forward as Castiel shook off the effects. Castiel didn’t wait for Abraxas to come closer, but lunged, pulling out the blade he’d been hiding, the silver flashing before burying itself in Abraxas’ torso. Unfortunately, Abraxas had quick reflexes, so it ended up higher in the shoulder, rather than heart, but Castiel grinned as his spell work became evident in the way the demon gasped and gripped the hilt. 

He hadn’t been carrying just a regular silver blade, effective against many things, but not all. No, Castiel had put some personal touches on it, sigils and spells which made it ten times more useful. It still wouldn't kill a demon however, but he hadn’t actually intended for that to be a function, since he’d thought that Hell was closed. Either way, Abraxas looked furious, as he pulled the sparking blade out of his shoulder, and tossed it away. 

“You little cretin.” He hissed, and swung his arm in a punch, catching Castiel across the jaw. He spun, staggering, but still not falling, until Abraxas gave a shove of demonic power, slamming his back into the floor. The breath got knocked out of him, and Castiel felt the water from his mopping soak into his shirt, as he skidded through the puddles. 

Castiel gasped, scrabbling to pull himself upright. Abraxas was down the hall, a hand to his bleeding shoulder, and a snarl on his face. 

“Oh, it’s almost disappointing, honestly. You got in a lucky hit, but even the other fallen angels I’ve killed fought back more than that.”

He reached Castiel, half upright on the floor, and dragged him to his feet. His fingers nearly tore his jumpsuit as he pulled him close, and then sent another punch to Castiel’s face, splitting his lip. Another, to his cheek. Another, to his eye. 

“Frankly, I don’t know what Dean-o sees in you.” Abraxas said, his face inches from Castiel’s bleeding one. Castiel sneered, and spat a mouthful of blood and spittle into Abraxas’ face. With a cry of disgust, he shoved Castiel back, stomping his chest to the ground. 

“Urgh!” He wiped it off with his wrist, and then used the same arm to drag him up again, and backhand him across the floor. “You disgusting creature!”

Castiel smiled grimly, and pushed his feet underneath himself, making a running break for it. Abraxas lunged forwards, 

“Oh no you don’t, little bird.” He caught hold of Castiel’s elbow and yanked. Something in his shoulder gave with a sickening pop, followed after by a wave of agony. 

“Arrgh...” Castiel tried to muffle his groan of pain, panting, he glared at Abraxas. Abraxas simply smiled, still gripping Castiel’s weirdly numb arm. He patted Castiel’s cheek. 

“We’re going to have some fun, and then I’m calling your precious Dean.”

Castiel felt of flood of alarm, trying to get away from the significantly stronger demon. He wished he was still an angel, simply to stop feeling so weak all the time. He’d have been able to _break_ this creature, but now he could only pull against his iron grip, uselessly. 

Abraxas was now using Dean as a taunt. He’d tell him about Castiel’s survival, hurt him further than Castiel had already done. This wasn’t what he meant to happen!

He didn’t have further time to think, as Abraxas pounded his fist into his side with a force far stronger than his now human strength. He fell back, gasping, seized up by the pain. He dragged him up again, and then threw him into the large double doors that led to the outside. His coughed as his ribs took the impact, groaned. His shoulder shifted, and he tried not to cry out. 

Once more, Abraxas picked him up by his jumpsuit, and swung him around, throwing him through the window next to the doors, shattering the glass. Castiel felt the shard slice through his exposed skin, though he tried to keep his eyes shut. He landed on the grass, with the broken glass sprinkling around him. 

Agony sparked through him. He’d landed on his shoulder, and his wounded arm was twisted underneath him. The arm was numb, but the joint was white heat. He couldn’t catch his breath. Castiel was bleeding from multiple places, but he couldn’t feel them in favor of the pain emanating from his shoulder. 

Crunching footsteps warned him of Abraxas’ approach, but he couldn’t do much more than try to shift, pushing himself over onto his back. It was all he could do to keep breathing, the loose glass slicing through his fingers as he tried to scramble backwards. 

Abraxas grinned down at him, and lifted a booted foot to press down on his sternum, hindering his already labored breathing. 

“Look at you,” He sneered, then he clicked his tongue. “That was _easy_ , wingman.”

He knelt besides Castiel, and started running his hands along his body. Grunting, a new alarm in his chest, Castiel struggled backwards, batting at his hand with his uninjured one. He slapped Castiel across the face, blacking out his eyes for a moment. He barely heard the demon’s words. 

“Calm down. I’m not into feathers.” He snapped, and then shoved a hand into Castiel’s front pocket. Then, through Castiel’s spinning gaze, he saw his phone in Abraxas’ hand, and heard the beep of his dial. 

_Ring, ring_

It was on speakerphone, and for a frozen second, Castiel thought no one would answer, that perhaps he’d remembered the wrong number, or that Dean had changed his contact information since Castiel had had it. But then-

“Hello?”

Castiel’s heart clenched at Dean’s voice, sounding just the same. He gulped a breath. 

“Dean! Don’t listen-”

Abraxas kneed him in the ribs, the same side that already pounded by the door, and he cut off his warning with a grunt of pain. 

“Ca- Who is this?” Dean demanded. Abraxas laughed, and pulled the phone closer to his face. 

“I’ve found a little bird that belongs to you, Winchester.” He purred into the mouthpiece. Dean erupted, shouting. 

“Where are you, you son of a bitch? What have you done to Cas?”

Cas gained some ability to breath again, but he was sure his gasps could be heard through the phone. 

“I’ll let you find out. This phone has plenty of battery, and I’m sure you’ve got the technology to find him before he bleeds out.” Abraxas listened to Dean’s cursing, and orders to Sam, the typing of keys with a pleased smile. 

“Cas, you hold on!” Dean yelled, “Sam, you got his signal...”

Abraxas took hold of the front of his suit again, his favorite place apparently, and jerked him further upright, putting the hand holding the phone behind his head, and clenching into his hair. His shoulder shifted, and Castiel gritted his teeth. 

“A parting gift, my little bird.” He said, and then smashed his lips against Castiel’s, teeth rapping together, and Castiel’s blood slicking between them. Castiel grimaced, snarled, but then something icy cold seemed to travel from his mouth to Castiel’s. It felt _evil_ , forcing its way down his throat. 

Fear and panic made him wrench away, gagging, but whatever it had been was already calming, twisting inside him before the feeling faded. Abraxas’ smile widened, and he licked Castiel’s blood off his lips. 

Dean was still shouting on the phone, but Castiel could do nothing but wretch, trying to keep down his dinner. Abraxas lifted the phone again, watching Castiel writhe on the ground. 

“You can have him back for now, Dean, until Abaddon decides the best way to destroy you. Consider this a warning.”

He finally stood, dropping Castiel’s phone near his head. He sent Castiel one last wink, and then walked off. 

For the first time, Castiel heard the alarms ringing from the building, probably from when he’d broken the window. The police would be here soon, he was sure. He idly wondered if he’d lose his job. 

Then Dean’s voice came again from the phone, panic clear through the speaker. Castiel slowly moved his hand to clumsily grab it, drag it to his mouth. 

“Cas, are you there? We’re coming to get you, man! Answer me, you son of a bitch!”

“Dean...” Castiel managed, his voice ragged with pain, mumbling through his cut lip, and the memory of that evil kiss. He spat, blood and spit on the grass. 

“Cas, where are you?” Dean sounded desperate, as much as he had that night in the crypt. 

“Dean, stay away. Don’ come...”

Dean shouted something back, but the world was spinning around. The alarms and Dean’s voice blurred into white noise, and then the his eyes went fuzzy, and slipped closed.


	2. Bare and Bleak is the Hillside

“We’re family!” 

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Winchester, but until we’re able to verify that, you’re going to have to wait outside.”

“Sir-”

“Don’t ‘sir’ me. I’ve thought this bastard was dead for months, and this dick of a doctor isn’t going to stop me from seeing him.”

“If he allows you in when he wakes, that’s a different matter, but until then-”

Castiel could hear the argument for far longer than he could process what it meant. His mind was fuzzy, like radio static (and why did that thought fill him with a slight dread?) and Castiel felt his whole body throb, threatening pain, but not actually hurting yet. His limbs was molded to the thin mattress, like he was made out of tons of rock. For a moment, he thought he was on his own small bed, but he couldn’t think what all these people were doing here. 

Then the scent of cleaning solutions came to him, so familiar as to be unconscious. Fluorescent lights peeped through his lashes, and his eyes fluttered against it, too bright. It ignited his almost headache into full blown pain, and he must have made a noise because the maddening argument finally stopped. 

“Mr. Novak?” A mild voice asked, suddenly near, and then quick fingers were checking his face, lifting his eyelids, poking and prodding. He jerked away from the fingers on his throat, alarm rushing through him. The steady beeping sped up, and Castiel realized it must have been monitoring his heart rate. “Stay calm, sir. You’re alright. You’re in a hospital.”

“Nngh? Wha..?” Castiel dragged his eyes open fully, blinking, taking in the small curtained room, the medical equipment surrounding him (some of which was attached to him via thin wires) and the scrub clad doctor or nurse in front of him. Further off...was Dean. 

His heartbeat picked up again, panic and fear and joy and gladness. No, but he wasn’t supposed to find me, he wasn’t supposed to know...

But it was so good to see him. 

“Dean...” Castiel murmured, his throat feeling raw and wreaked. The doctor woman gave him a straw and told him to drink, and to calm down again. 

“Yeah, it’s me. Can I go in now?” Dean’s voice was harsh, and directed at the woman, who rolled her eyes, and nodded. Dean stepped through the line of the curtain and took a seat in the chair by his bed. Dean looked angry and tired...so nothing new then. 

Castiel’s mind was clearing as he woke further, and sipped his water. Sharp aches were making themselves known all over his body and face, along with the duller pain of bruising growing. But that was all nothing compared to the deep throbbing in his left shoulder, and to a lesser extent his ribs. He thought of what had led to this, the demon at his work, the call to the man sitting next to him. He’d obviously come quickly, it couldn’t have been that much later. Though, judging by the bandages on his arms and hands, he’d been stitched up already. 

He looked over at Dean. 

“I told you not to come,” Castiel said, and Dean blinked. 

“Well, hello to you too.” Dean said, glaring at him. 

“Dean, it’s dangerous,” Castiel pressed. 

“That why you didn’t tell me you were alive?” Dean’s voice was low, and laced with anger. There was a sudden stillness across the room, as nurse or whoever she was paused with whatever she was doing, listening in. Castiel gritted his teeth, and pulled himself further upright with his one functional arm, gasping as his pain increased. 

“Mr. Novak, don’t strain yourself! You’ll tear the stitches.” The woman said, moving from where she’d been, to adjust something behind the bed. Castiel sighed as pressure was taken off his ribs, sitting up further. “Now, the doctor is going to come in a minute or two, but do you have any questions?”

“Yeah, when can I leave?”

Dean opened his mouth, but the nurse just shook her head as if she’d seen it all before. 

“You just woke up, sir.” She sounded kind.

“I know, and I don’t have insurance. When can I leave?”

“You can’t leave until the doctor checks you over.”

Castiel was thinking about the little pile of savings under his bed, and how medical bills were the most prevalent form of debt in the country. Dean made a surprised noise, and Castiel cut him a look. 

“It’s just...didn’t know you knew about stuff like that.” Dean said, sheepishly.

“I’m not an idiot, Dean.” Castiel said hotly. “I’ve been on my own for...” He cut a glance at the curiously listening nurse, and then sighed. “A while.”

The nurse finished her tasks, and left them be, leaving Dean free to retort. 

“You didn’t have to be on your own, Cas, dammit.” Dean said, rising in his seat, his fists clenching and unclenching, but his eyes were wide. “Why didn’t you call me?”

Castiel turned his face away from Dean, away from his hurt and anger. He was hurting and exhausted and he didn’t want to deal with this now (or ever). He was saved from further inquisition by a tap on the curtain, and the smiling doctor’s entrance. 

“Hey there,” She said as she entered. “I’m Doctor Chaudhri. And how are you feel-”

“Do I have any life threatening injuries?” Castiel cut her off, sitting up again. It hurt, his ribs were painful, and his shoulder was no use at all in the sling, but he managed. The doctor was wide eyed, looking worried. 

“Sir, you need to lie still. No, you don’t have any life threatening wounds, but you do have some very painful ones.”

“I’m checking out.” Castiel said bluntly. Dean was making a face at him, smiling and frowning at the same time. 

“I wouldn't advise it.” Doctor Chaudhri said. 

“I don’t care.”

 

After more arguing, and Dean finally cutting in to say he’d drive him home, and look after him, the doctors let him with two prescriptions for painkillers and antibiotics (which he wouldn’t fill) and made him ride out in a wheelchair. Out in the parking lot, Dean pushed his chair, while Castiel sulked. The fact that Dean was here at all was overwhelming. It was something that his pain, exhaustion, fear and anger did not allow him to handle with any degree of finesse. 

Dean pushed him carefully, having received a handful of papers and serious instructions as to his care. Castiel didn’t see what the problem was; he’d be fine. He had cuts and bruises, the doctors had said so. He did get fitted with a sling, which he’d probably have to pay for later, but it kept the pressure off his shoulder which was a plus. 

They rounded a corner, and Castiel saw the Impala sitting slightly crooked in a parking space, gleaming like always. He felt a surge of emotion at seeing her, as if had always been a place of safety, even years ago when he was still an angel. 

Dean helped him into the passenger seat, though he almost wished he could sit in his normal place in the back, and then got in behind the wheel. Neither of them had said a word since they’d left the hospital building, and the silence continued as Dean watched the attendant wheel away the chair he’d ridden in. His fingers lingered on the ignition, but he didn’t start the car. 

“We gonna talk about this?” He finally asked, glancing over but not meeting his eyes. He looked as tired as Castiel felt. Castiel tilted his head back against the too low seat, until his eyes trailed the ceiling of the car. 

“Dean, I just want to go home.” He said lowly. Dean blew out a breath, and the car started. 

“Where to?” He asked, toneless, like a cab driver. Castiel’s chest did a funny clenching. Shaking it off, Castiel spoke the address to the ceiling, and Dean pulled the car out, and drove. 

They pulled up in front of the building Castiel lived in, and Dean put the car in park. Castiel leaned forward, looking up to the attic, three stories up, and remembered again with a mental groan that his building was far too run down for an elevator. Those stairs would be awful. 

“Here?” Dean said, as Castiel reached for the door handle, moving slowly. Castiel bristled at the judgment in his voice, but he was too tired to really get angry. 

“Here.”

Castiel dragged himself out of the car, listing to the side to compensate for the immobilized shoulder. Dean came around to help him again, but he waved him off, digging his fingers into his pocket for the keys to the building. He was grateful the hospital hadn’t removed or ruined his work jumpsuit, or the clothes he had underneath. He couldn’t afford to replace either. 

The door to his apartment opened with the sticking sound it always did, and Castiel shoved it over the uneven spot on the floor to lead Dean in. He tried not to watch Dean’s reaction to the place, as he looked around with interest, a furrow between his brows. He supposed intellectually it was interesting. Castiel had been an angel the whole time Dean had known him, how he lived or filled his own space would be unique and unknown, but he couldn’t help but feel Dean was looking less at his choices of decor, and more at the exposed pipes, the thin stained carpet, or the broken light fixture. Castiel just prayed there weren’t any bugs visible. 

“Nice place,” Dean commented, still toneless like he’d been in the car. Castiel blinked, and sank into the wobbly kitchen chair, leaving the more solid one for Dean if he wanted it. His body ached, and according to the clock he’s balanced against the stove top, at six in the morning it was far too late/early for any serious discussion. He probably should eat something, but he just felt nauseous from the pain, and his nerves. 

“Thank you,” Castiel replied, just as flat, and then glanced up at Dean again. He had yet to sit, leaning instead against the counter, and not looking at Castiel. Castiel cleared his throat, feeling unbearably awkward over all his pain and tiredness. 

“Do you want anything? Water? I have cereal...”

Dean shook himself out of his thoughts, finally meeting Castiel’s gaze. “No, man. You just got out of the hospital, I should be getting you stuff? You probably need your meds filled, and some sleep-”

Castiel was shaking his head. “I can’t afford the medication. Just leave it, Dean. I’ll be fine.”

Dean blinked. “What? You want me to go?”

The way he said go was the permanent one, the one that meant ‘go out of my life for good’. Castiel didn’t know if that _was_ what he meant. All he knew is that he hurt, and was tired and he’d probably have to miss days of work, and that would mean less pay...

“I don’t know, Dean. Perhaps that would depend on why you were here?”

Anger flashed across Dean’s face. “What? I’m here because I drove all night get to my formerly dead best friend who’d been attacked and injured. I’m here cause I wanted to make sure you were alright, to see for myself that you were alive.”  
Castiel rubbed his hand across his face, and then waved it around the room. 

“I’m here, alive and relatively unharmed. What more do you want of me?” 

Dean’s fingers were flexing against the counter’s edge. “Oh, I dunno, how about the truth? How about why you lied to me and hid from me, _again_? Why you didn’t come to _me_ for help when you needed it?”

Dean glared at him, waiting for an answer, and Castiel gritted his teeth. It seemed he was ever explaining himself to Dean. 

“I didn’t tell you I was alive on purpose.” He said, and Dean blinking, pain flashing behind renewed anger. 

“Gee, don’t sugarcoat it.”

“I’m not sugaring anything. I stayed away because I didn’t want to put further imposition on you, when all of this is my fault in the first place. I couldn’t ask you for help when this happened because I didn’t listen to you.”

Dean slammed a hand on the counter. 

“So you play dead?”

“It was better that way. This way I could do as you said, and clean up my mess.” Castiel spread his free hand, trying to get Dean to understand. 

“How the hell was it better for me to think you were dead?” Dean said, voice rising. 

Castiel answered flatly, “You would have gotten over it.”

Dean shook his head, face red with rage, and eyes wet. There was a long pause, while Castiel hunched over the table, and found himself thinking longingly of his bed. 

Then Dean spoke again. 

“Maybe I’m not getting it, man. Maybe I don’t understand some things, but I think I deserve an explanation of what happened that night.”

Castiel dragged himself straighter, blinking at Dean. The anger and defensiveness he’d felt was gone, to be replaced with bone deep tiredness. He breathed in, breathed out. 

“M- Metatron,” Castiel stumbled over the name, not having let himself even think it for months. “Naomi was right, it was a trap. He wasn’t having me do trials to close Heaven, he was having me complete a spell to empty it. The last ingredient was my grace.”

Castiel rubbed a hand over his throat, where that phantom itch or pain sometimes bothered him. He kept his eyes on the table top. “He cut it out of me, and then sent me to Earth. I woke up in the woods outside this town, completely human. I watched...as my brothers and sisters were then cast out, their wings burning away as a result of the spell.”

Castiel’s voice was raw, and shaking (to his shame) but as he cleared it, a glass of water appeared in front of him. Dean pushed it towards him, and sat in the chair across from his. Castiel nodded his thanks, and used the sips to push away the tears that still threatened whenever he thought about that night, the long hours of just sobbing and screaming as more and more angels fell. 

Dean was quiet, and Castiel swallowed one more gulp of water before continuing. 

“I received help from the community center I now work at. I’m here because of kind strangers, who helped me get on my feet. I’ve been alright, Dean. I’ve been trying to fix it. Like you said.”

Dean propped his elbows on the table, rubbing his hands across his face vigorously. “Damn, it, Cas. Just forget what I said, for one friggin minute.”

Castiel squinted at him, confused. Dean continued. 

“Look, you’re tired, I’m tired. Get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Castiel looked out his narrow windows, the light growing brighter with each moment. 

“Dean, it is morning.”

Dean huffed, glancing out for himself. “You’re right. It is.”

There was another stretch of silence, as Castiel tried to get up the energy to move. His bed was only across the room, since it was a studio apartment, but it seemed ridiculously far. 

“Okay,” Dean pushed himself up, and offered a hand to pull Castiel out of his chair. “Time to sleep.”

Castiel accepted the help, recognizing that he’d been on the floor now without it. His limbs seemed to have rebelled, and it was all he could do not to collapse onto the mattress. He attempted to twist out of the sling, before Dean unsnapped the fastenings for him, and then he buried his bruised face into the pillow. 

“Where’re you gonna sleep?” Castiel murmured, as Dean pulled the blankets up over him. 

“I’ll be fine, Cas. I’ll see you in the morning.”

As he drifted off to sleep, Castiel thought he must have imagined the brush of careworn fingers across his forehead.


	3. I Think on What Might Have Been

Light woke Dean, far too bright to have come in the narrow openings in his bedroom. He turned his face into his pillow (oddly rough against his stubble) and threw an arm over his eyes. 

“Gah, who turned on the lights?” He mumbled. He was slowly realizing that he was very much not on his memory foam mattress, and that there was another person breathing a few feet away. Why did he sleep on hardwood?

“That would be the sun,” Said a voice, horribly familiar, and which brought back all that had happened in the last day. He sat up, and looked around. Cas...Cas was alive, and here, and human, and lying twisted on his pillow with a massive case of bedhead. Whoo...he really needed to start getting more sleep. Dean closed his eyes again, and wiped a hand down his face, breathing out gustily. 

Cas shifted on his own creaky mattress, asking, “Are you alright?” Dean nodded. 

“Yeah,” Dean stretched forwards, and pulled himself to his feet. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” Cas replied, to which Dean snorted, calling bullshit. Then Cas’ face changed, his eyes widening. “Dean, how is Sam? Is he...?”

Dean blinked, looking down at his friend, tense and raised up on one elbow. He wouldn’t know, would he?

“Sam? He’s fine.” Dean said, smiling in spite of himself. “You got me to him in time. He stopped the trials. It nearly whooped him then, but he pulled through. He’s still weak, but he’s getting better. “

Cas breathed out, looking relieved as hell, and Dean found himself glad that Cas was relieved; that he’d thought about Sam. 

“I’m glad,” Cas said, and Dean nodded. 

“Me too.” 

His thoughts were interrupted by a phone ringing suddenly. It wasn’t Dean’s, which was next to his jacket, so it must have been Cas’. The jumpsuit he’d been wearing (and looking weirdass in) was crumpled on the floor, where he’d dropped it on the way to bed, and the noise was coming from one of the pockets. Cas leaned forward with a groan, pulling his legs out from the blankets, but Dean bent down and beat him to it, grabbing the cheap looking phone and handing it to him. The name on the screen said only ‘Angela’.

“Angela?” He questioned as he placed it in Cas’ palm. Cas ignored Dean, and answered. 

“Hello, Angela,” Castiel said, his voice rough. 

A muffled woman’s voice came through the line, and Dean tried not to listen, as Cas reassured whoever it was that he was alright, and that he was home, and then Dean froze at what Cas said next. 

“I should be back to work soon.”

Dean turned, and looked at Cas before looking away. He should have known. It didn’t matter that he was alive, or that Dean had come and found him. He had a life here, he had friends and a job, and an apartment, and he wasn’t intending on leaving it, even with the threats of demonic retribution. 

“A friend came and picked me up. Yes, I’m really fine. He is taking care of me. Don’t worry. I’ll see you soon, Angela.” A click, and Cas hung up the phone. Dean turned his eyes back to Cas, sitting there in a slightly bloody tee shirt, and boxers, half in bed, and slumped over with pain. His hands gripped the half folded blanket he’d slept on, and he tried to think of anything to say, to ask what he was dreading the answer to, if he’d only gotten Cas back to lose him again.

“Who was that?” Dean finally said. 

“My supervisor. And a friend.” Castiel shifted some more, wincing. Damn, he was probably in tons of pain, and he hadn’t taken anything. Dean threw the blanket onto the end of Cas’ bed, and brushed his hands together. 

“Why don’t you go take a shower. I’m gonna run out to the store, you want anything?”

Cas furrowed his brow, looking up at him. “What are you getting at the store?”

Dean waved his hand. “You’ve got kinda a bare kitchen, dude. I’m getting breakfast. How do you like donuts?”

Cas shrugged with his good shoulder. “I’ve never had them.”

“Okay, then. You get cleaned up, I’ll be back soon.”

Dean left the small apartment without another word, snatching the hospital check out forms, and prescription papers from the table, leaving Cas there to shower and do whatever else. As he closed the door, he dug out his phone, and dialed his brother. 

“Dean, how is everything? Is Cas alright?”

Dean jogged down the stairs, and shifted his grip on the phone. “Woah, Sammy, calm down the inquisition, please.”  
He pushed open the building's front door, and went out to the car.

“Well?” Sam sounded impatient, even though a text message had updated him before leaving the hospital last night. 

“Yeah, he’s fine. Well, he’s beat up, but he’ll be okay.” He slid behind the wheel, and then stopped. 

“So, what’s wrong?”

Dean breathed out, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “LIke I said, he’s fine. He’s got a life here.”

There was a long pause. 

“So, does that mean he’s not coming back with you?” There was hesitance in his tone, disappointment, but also worry. Dean swallowed. 

“I don’t know. He told his boss he was going to come back to work.”

“Where is he now?”

“Upstairs. I’m gonna get some breakfast, get his prescriptions filled.”

“And then?”

Dean dropped his hand from the wheel, to throw it into the air, even if Sam couldn't see it to appreciate the gesture. 

“I don’t know!”

“Cause, something you both need to remember is that he’s on Abaddon’s watch list now. She knows where he works, it won’t be too hard to find out where he lives. I think you need to get him to come here, at least until we get this straightened out, just to keep him safe.”

Dean took a breath. 

“Yeah, you’re right.” And that argument would be something Cas might actually listen to, stubborn bastard. 

Sam took another breath. 

“How are you taking all this?”

“Taking what?” Dean said gruffly. Sam sighed. 

“Finding out Cas is alive.”

“I’m fine. I’m not the one a demon beat the shit out of yesterday.” 

“I know, but this can’t be easy. You didn’t exactly leave it on the best terms, and then he was dead. I know how hard that was for you.”

Dean huffed. 

“Yeah, well,” He tapped his thumb on the steering column. Sam spoke again. 

“He’s alive, Dean. You have a chance to work this out. Don’t push him away.”

“What do you think I’m going to do? If anyone’s pushing-” Dean broke off, not wanting to go down that route. “You know what, I gotta go. There’s gonna be lines at the pharmacy, and I don’t want to leave him alone that long.”

“Alright, let me know. And Dean, Cas has got to feeling like crap for all this too, not to mention he’s lost his grace. Go easy on him.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean hung up, and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. His music started up, and Dean pushed it even louder, immaturely hoping that Cas up in his attic could hear the beat. He drove off with Guns and Roses blaring in his ears, looking for the nearest CVS. 

 

Castiel was just giving up on the attempt to towel dry his hair with one working arm, when there was a pounding on the door. Dean, back with whatever he was getting. Sighing, he got up from where he’d sat on the bed, and went to the door with his hair dripping uncomfortably down his neck. 

“Come on, man, let me in.” Dean called through the door, and Castiel shuffled at little faster, wincing at the soreness that had been alright in the shower, and then got worse as he dried off afterwards. 

“I’m coming,” He said, reaching for the doorknob and pulling it open. Dean stood there with two paper bags, coffee cups on a tray, and was pulling on his grin, covering up some other emotion. 

“Gonna let me in? Come on, man, this is awkward.”

Moving aside, Castiel huffed as Dean brought his bags over to the table, and pulled out a box of donuts, and bottles of juice. The tray he set down, and picked up one of the cups. 

“Coffee?” He asked, and Castiel reached out a hand eagerly, and took a sip. He’d never really found something he liked more than a good coffee, and Dean had good taste. Dean also handed him a donut, one of the ones covered in a brown cream that smelled of maple. 

“Maple bars. Best donut, hands down. Don’t let anyone sell you on that cream filled crap.” Dean said, watching him until he took a bite. The flavor was pleasing, and Castiel swallowed and nodded his approval. 

“Thank you.”

Castiel’s attention then caught on the white bags sitting next to the others, the ones stapled together with slips of paper on the fronts. They were his prescriptions. He picked one up, and pills rattled inside. 

“Dean, I said I couldn’t afford these. I can’t take them.”

Dean shook his head. “I got them, Cas. You need to at least take the antibiotics. Who knows what was on that glass.”

“I said I was fine.” Castiel protested, and Dean raised both his hands, palms up and placating. 

“Look, you don’t even have to take them all. I just didn’t want you to be without them if you did end up needing them. It’s up to you.”

Castiel put the bag down, and picked up the coffee again, taking a sip. “I’d forgotten how exasperating you can be.”

Dean stilled, and suddenly the room was tense. 

“Exasperating?” Dean said, his voice chilly. “Cas, you are the most infuriating bastard I’ve ever met. And I’ve met some doozies. You always-”  
Dean twisted his mouth, his jaw clenching. “What’s the use? You won’t hear me anyway. You never do.”

Castiel got the sense he was talking about more than just this conversation. 

“Are we talking about just right now? Because I always heard you Dean. Always.” Castiel put down the donut, and wiped off any excess around his mouth, turning from the table. 

“Just couldn't be bothered to show ninety percent of the time?” Dean scoffed. Castiel turned back to the table, slamming his hand down. 

“I never meant to hurt you Dean! It was the last thing I ever wanted to do.”

“Had a funny way of showing it.” Dean said right back. Castiel growled in exasperation, running a hand up into his damp hair. He thought of all those times he’d done something, made a choice, thinking it was right for Dean, and each and every one was wrong. Each one hurt Dean more, and made him think Castiel didn’t care, when the opposite was true. He sank into the chair, feeling like he and Dean had been on the wrong page their entire acquaintance. 

“I don’t know how to show it.” He murmured. An ‘I’m sorry’ rose to his lips, but he tamped it down. Dean didn't want to hear that from him, he’d made that quite clear. He found himself wishing Dean would just leave, wishing that demon had never found him, so that his life could go back to the depressing norm that it had been. 

Dean breathed out heavily, and then rubbed the back of his neck. 

“I talked to Sam while I was out.” Dean said into the silence, his voice much quieter than it had been. “He thinks we should head back to the bunker soon, start figuring out Abaddon’s plan.”

Dean kept his eyes fixed on the kitchen counter, and Castiel realized what Dean was saying. 

“No.”

Dean finally met his gaze again, looking agitated. 

“Cas, you can’t stay here on your own.”

“I have for months.”

“Yeah, and the Queen of Hell didn’t have you on her radar then. She knows where you work, she’ll find out where you live and you won’t be so lucky next time.” Dean argued. Castiel turned his back, wincing as his tension made his shoulder twinge even more. 

“I have a life here, Dean. Responsibilities. Bills.” 

Dean shook his head. “Ok, fine, you’re a capable human being. I get it. But it’s not safe here, not like the bunker is. There we can work on a plan, and put this bitch down. Then...you can come back. Live your life again. It’ll be temporary, I promise. 

Castiel turned his face from Dean’s earnest expression, his wide eyes, to look around what had become his home these past few months. He’d put his mark here. There were trinkets from his trench coat pockets scattered about the shelves, books from the library, piles of laundry that needed doing. 

He thought of that demon, Abraxas. How strong he’d been against his meagre human strength. His fists impacting against Castiel’s face, his boots digging into his ribs. He thought of the demon’s cold kiss, and the chill deep within him whenever he thought of it. The salt lines he had on the doors and windows here, and the sigils carved into the frames wouldn’t stop him. He didn’t like the fear that he felt now. 

And, Dean... The bunker, the batcave, as he called it, was Dean’s sanctuary. Castiel did feel touched to be invited to stay there, even on a temporary basis. It was just hard to remember under his irritation, and the all too human tiredness and pain. 

“I don’t doubt your abilities, Cas.” Dean said, and Castiel turned, his shoulder slumping. 

“Fine, I’ll come.”


	4. Years Back I Believed A Little

Eschewing any further emotion conversation, Dean chattered about other things, while Castiel packed up his clothes, and papers, and put the library books in a bag to drop off on the way out of town. He left a message for Angela, and wrote a note for his landlord’s mailbox, saying he’d be gone for a while, but that he’d still get his rent on time, and not to sell his place. 

He learned more about Sam’s condition, and his slow steps towards recovery. Castiel had been surprised to hear that a half cured Crowley was also staying with them at the bunker, albeit in the dungeon. Apparently, he’d already provided some useful information, as well as endless requests for alcohol, and romance novels. Kevin was still with them as well, and was demanding a break where he refused to touch any of the tablets they had, and only wanted to play games on the television. Castiel supposed it was earned. 

Overall, Dean seemed to be the head of a chaotic household, of which he was now inviting a depressed fallen angel to join in. Castiel couldn't see how this was a good idea, but he’d already agreed. 

After one last check of the place, he climbed into the Impala again, and they sped off towards Lebanon, Kansas.

____

 

Sam was upright, and smiling as they pulled to a stop outside the bunker. Castiel blinked, rubbing his eyes. He fallen asleep for most of the drive, apparently, as he’d thought the distance should have taken much longer to traverse, but that was the one nice thing about sleep. It stole hours in the blink of an eye. 

Dean opened the door, and shifted out of his seat, leaving Castiel to follow from the passenger side. Sam pulled his door open for him, and Castiel looked up at the young giant, his friend, and smiled. He was still thinner than he should have been, and pale, but his eyes were bright, and he carefully pulled Castiel up and into a gentle hug. Castiel returned it with his un-slinged arm. 

“It’s so good to see you, Cas.” Sam said, pulling back. Castiel smiled, trying not to wince, as he was still very sore and especially stiff from the drive, but he’d appreciated the gesture. 

“It’s good to see you too. I had been worried you’d not survived the trials.” Castiel said softly. A flash of pain, guilt or something else turned Sam’s mouth down. 

“I wasn’t supposed to. We didn’t close the gates, or I would have died.” He said. 

“I know.” 

Dean came up behind, holding his bags from the back seat. 

“I filled him in, Sam. Let’s go inside. I’m fixing dinner, and then bed.”

_____

After dinner, Castiel was shown to the room he’d been sleeping in by Sam. It was the plain square room he’d healed in the last time he’d been here, and bleeding from a gut wound. It was across the hall from Sam’s, and next door to Dean’s. Kevin had chosen a room much further down the wing of living quarters, as far from the rest of the them as possible. He’d only seen him at dinner, and then only to grab some food and disappear again. 

Castiel got the feeling that Kevin wasn’t very happy with the Winchesters. 

Castiel set his bags on a chair at the side of the room, and pulled out his sleeping clothes. He was rather fond of pyjamas, they were much less restricting than jeans. He carefully changed into them, flipped off the light, and sank down onto the bed. He _hurt_ everywhere, especially his shoulder, even bound as it was in a sling. His stitches itched too, which was annoying. He pondered the pills that Dean had got him, but he mostly   
thought he just wanted to sleep. 

Laying back, Castiel marvelled at the softness of this bed, and the warmth of the covers as he pulled them over himself. He unstrapped the sling, by himself this time, and tested his shoulder joint. It felt oddly loose, and very sore, but there was nothing deep, just muscle pain. He’d be fine in a few days, he was sure. 

He glanced at his phone, laying out where he’d put it on the side table, and allowed himself a smile that he wasn’t setting the alarm tonight. Castiel turned his face into the pillow, and drifted again into sleep. 

______

 

The Darkness pressed on him, cold, icy water through his veins. 

his skeleton was made of stone, of glacial ribs contracting and contracting with no warmth of life.

The Cold burned him inside out, solidifying his muscles, numbing and blackening his skin. Frost crawled up and covered his eyes. 

But It wasn’t natural cold. 

It was Evil. It was Ill Intent: personified, and malicious, touching him with biting fingers, reaching inside him, tying his organs into hyperborean knots. 

It was dirty, and disturbing, but he was too numb to even register why. 

he couldn’t breathe.

Then, in a flash that seemed to disintegrate him in the pain, the ice melted! A heat spread so intense it scalded everything he was...

What was he?

and he breathed a molten breath that melted his own body.

he was on fire, and the Intent, the Evil inside him laughed...

throat burned, flesh crisped black again, blood boiled

_Cas? Cas!_

Castiel? That was his name. 

Castiel felt the Cold snaking back in, but armed with his name, with his thoughts and memories, he fought. The Evil looked on his struggle, his pain, with enjoyment. 

_Cas, wake up!_

Light was blinding, where darkness had been before. His bruised ribs, body warm and heaving, ached with pain, and his throat was raw. He’d been screaming?

As soon as he thought it, the noise stopped, and all awareness jolted into his brain. He was wet with sweat, breathing hard, and blinking in the light of the room’s lamp. Dean hovered over him, his face pale and drawn, and something terrible was pressing at the back of his throat. 

His stomach lurched, and he jerked forward and vomited over the edge of the bed, the sick hitting the back of his teeth in a disgusting way, and splattering onto the carpet. Dean jumped back with a shout of alarm, as Castiel coughed, and spat out the taste of bile and the pasta Dean had made. 

The room was echoing with his screams, and was now tinged with the smell of sick. Dean was sitting on the side of his bed, leaning his legs away from Castiel’s mess when Castiel pulled back from the edge, curling up around his stomach, and trying to catch his breath. Tears beaded in his eyes,   
but he blinked them back, focusing on Dean’s hand on his back. 

A shifting noise, and Castiel realized Sam was standing in the doorway. Castiel felt a flash of guilt and shame that he’d woken them both. They were tired looking, wide eyed and concerned. 

“Sam, get some towels.” Dean said, and started rubbing a thumb into his upper back, avoiding the hurt part of his shoulder. Pain was sparking all over his body, especially his head and ribs and stomach, and he tried to hold back a whimper. 

“Easy, easy, it’s okay. Deep breaths.” Dean’s voice was calming, soothing like he was speaking to a wounded animal. Castiel wanted to take offense, but his whole being was screaming out for comfort, such as he’d never had, during those long nights of crying and wailing after he fell. 

But, was it the same? This nightmare had not been memories, more just a terrible, dark feeling. He couldn’t shake the frozen band that still squeezed his ribs, and a feeling of malignant evil. 

He shuddered, and slowed his breathing a little more, as more of the real world came back to him. 

“That happen often?” Dean asked softly, taking his hand away. Castiel didn’t know how to answer, didn’t know how to explain the strange difference between his normal (plentiful) nightmares, and this...terror. Dean shifted. “Nightmares are rough, but they do get better, believe it or-”

“No,” Castiel said, shifting to sit up. “That wasn’t normal. I have nightmares, memories, often. That was-” Castiel broke off, swallowed past the rawness in his throat. 

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

Dean glanced around, before he turned back to Castiel. His brow was furrowed. 

“Well, maybe you have a bug, or you know, stress. It does funny things sometimes.”

“No, Dean.” Castiel tugged at his blankets, trying to straighten them, clenching them in his fists. “I don’t know what it was, but it felt wrong.”

Tilting his head, Dean frowned harder. “Is it still happening?” Castiel paused, searched inward, but felt only his own breath, his too fast heartbeat. 

“No, I’m fine now.”

Dean’s shoulders loosened, and he patted his arm. 

“If it happens again, let me know.”

Sam returned then, his arms full of towels, cleaning supplies, a glass of water and a package of crackers. He handed the latter two to Castiel, while Dean took the sprays and began scrubbing the floor. Another pang of guilt filled him, and Castiel moved to the edge of the bed. 

“I can-”

Dean glanced up, pausing in the middle of spraying the stain. “I got this. Lay back down, okay?” There was a pile of soiled towels already on the floor. 

Castiel slumped back. 

“I’m sorry.” The words came out, and Castiel winced knowing Dean didn’t like his apologies. Dean simply shrugged, and stood. 

“It’s okay. No harm done. Get some more sleep.” Dean brushed Castiel’s arm again, before scooping up the towels, and leaving the room. Sam meanwhile, had located his prescription bottles, and poured out some of the mild painkillers he’d been given, leaving them by the water. 

“You better eat some crackers if you take the pills.” He said softly, before smiling. “You good?”

Castiel, glancing at the door where Dean had disappeared, forced a calmer face, and nodded. 

“Thank you, Sam. I’ll be fine.”

Sam left with another soft look, and Castiel took the pills, and then lay back nibbling on a cracker. The crumbs fell down the collar of his shirt, and he brushed them away in annoyance.

His dream was troubling him. Castiel had meant what he said to Dean. It had felt very wrong, but he didn’t have much frame of reference for normal human experiences, so it was possible he was overreacting. 

Castiel dug his face into his pillow, trying to ease the ache in his limbs, the cold feeling still lingering in his chest. He hugged his arms to himself (still careful of his shoulder) but it did little to warm him, and he lay awake for a long while.


	5. They Suited Days Gone By

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. It was moving day yesterday, and everything was crazy.

The Men of Letters bunker (or the Batcave, as Dean called it for reasons probably explained by a movie, but that Castiel had yet to really figure out) was a terrific structure. At least three levels under ground from the entrance, plus an unexplored building above ground. At ground level, was the entrance, and the residence wing, wherein Dean and Sam chose their specific bedrooms out of over twenty individual rooms. Castiel’s was there too, one that someone had kept up as most of the them were bolted, and covered with dust. On the second level, down a spiral staircase, there was the main war room and the library area where Sam and Dean spent most of the their time, an industrial size kitchen, store rooms on storerooms, an infirmary, and besides all that, shelves lined every wall. Then, below, in the third level were the archives, and apparently a dungeon. 

It was impressive that there were depths that Dean and Sam had yet to plumb. Feeling the immenseness of the place, Castiel spent a good part of the day wandering around in his pyjamas. He trailed his hand over carved shelves and sigils on the walls -protection and anti-magic which the WInchesters definitely needed- and wondered vaguely if he should be doing something. He also felt a stirring of loneliness, which somehow he thought would have abated once he was reunited with them. 

Dean had vanished shortly after breakfast (which had been strawberry covered waffles and was far more luxurious than the foods he’d been buying for himself). Castiel knew he presented no reason or motivation for Dean to want his company, but he still felt oddly abandoned. Kevin was in his room, only having emerged for food. As they had never really been on good terms, he understood the bitter look he’d received when he took his plate and vacated again. Crowley was here, somewhere in the depths of this place, but Castiel had no desire to seek him out. Only one person left. 

Sam was seated in the war room, a cup of coffee by his elbow and a yellowed book open in front of him. His laptop was closed on the table, and the rest of the space was scattered with the usual detritus that had been on it the last time he was here. 

Castiel stepped closer, and down the three steps to the main level. Sam looked up at his footfalls. 

“Hello, Sam.” He greeted, and Sam’s face brightened. 

“Hey, Cas. How’s it going?”

This was a colloquialism that his neighbor Larry had been fond of. It had taken him a bit of time to realize that the proverbial ‘it’ was just his life in general, and that humans only asked as a nicety, and expected a pleasantly neutral answer. Castiel pulled out the chair he’d sat on before, and tried to smile. 

“It’s going fine.” He replied. “You?” The expected response. 

Sam blinked, nodded. “Good, good.” There was a moments pause. Castiel didn’t think a human exchange of pleasantries was supposed to feel this awkward. 

“Where’s Dean?” Sam then asked, and Castiel felt his face tighten, his twinging feelings rising up again. 

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since breakfast.”

Sam frowned, opened his mouth and then closed it. Castiel squinted. 

“What?”

He shrugged. “It’s just... I would’ve expected him to be glued to you once we got you back.”

“Why would you think that?” Castiel asked. From his interactions with Dean, excluding after his nightmare last night, Dean was still angry with him, and any conversation led to a fight. 

Sam looked uncomfortable. “Look, I don’t know how much he wants you to know, but he didn’t take your disappearance well.”

Castiel, beginning to also feel uncomfortable, said nothing. Sam glanced around, as if making sure Dean wouldn't suddenly appear. 

“I mean, Cas... He really thought you were dead. It broke him. I have never seen him like that, and that’s including when our dad died, or Bobby, or even-” Sam smiled wryly, “-the last time you died.”

Castiel looked down at the table top, at the upside down words of Sam’s book. 

“That makes no sense. He yelled at me all day yesterday, and is avoiding me all day today. Forgive me, but he doesn’t seem very happy to see me.”

Sam blew out. “Well he is, trust me. He’s plenty mad at you too, but he’s very glad you’re alive.”

Castiel slumped some more in the face of Sam’s earnestness. 

“If you say so.” He said, and Sam twitched his mouth, towards a smile but with too much memory of sadness. 

“I’m glad you’re alive too, Cas. We both missed you.”

Castiel smiled a little in response. “I too, am glad you survived. I couldn’t be sure while I was away, but I hoped.”

Sam sat back, smiling wider, more genuinely, and turning his eyes back to his book. There was a moments pause, while Castiel shifted on the chair, and eyed the laptop. It had been ages since he’d done his research, and he felt the press of the pages of notes he’d taken, the possible locations, and trails that might have gone stale in the time he’d been being lazy. 

“May I borrow your computer?” Castiel finally asked, causing Sam to look up.

“Huh? My computer?”

Castiel nodded. “Please.”

Sam shrugged, and handed it over the table to him, the cord trailing across the books still spread out. Castiel took it and opened it, quickly accessing the internet, and then his email. The room was quiet for a minute.

“When did you learn to use a computer?” Sam finally asked, and Castiel sighed, feeling annoyance tense his neck muscles. 

“A librarian at the public library was kind enough to teach me.”

Another moment stretched out, wherein Sam just watched him. Castiel knew he had a less than accurate awareness of social norms, but even he was getting uncomfortable with the staring.

“I was on my own for months, Sam. I adapted to the mechanics of this world.” 

“Sorry,” Sam said, sheepish. “It’s just, you, in regular clothes on my computer. It’s a lot to get used to.”

Castiel felt Sam had no idea just how much it was to get used to, but he held his peace. 

“What are you working on?” Sam then asked, and Castiel looked up from what he’d been typing. 

“Email, research. I’m trying to locate my fallen siblings. I can usually find the landing sites, but they’ve proven elusive after that.”

Sam got up, and looked at the screen over Castiel’s shoulder, at his maps and emails pulled up. 

“Do you want any help?”

______________

 

Dean spend the day deep in the archives. The better to avoid thinking about the fact that Cas was upstairs, alive and fine and human and had lied to him again, and-

He sighed. Trying not to think about something was like trying to load a gun with gummy bears. Useless. The thoughts were circulating around and around his brain, and he couldn’t seem to stop remembering Cas with sleep mussed hair, answering the door to his apartment like a regular person. Pain filling Cas’ eyes as he shifted in the car, trying to sleep. Cas sick and sobbing after a nightmare...it was all too weird, too different, and Dean couldn’t get his head around it. 

Not to mention the whole ‘let’s not tell Dean I’m alive’ thing, which was super awesome. 

But he _was_ alive, dammit. So why wasn’t he upstairs, spending every last minute with the bastard? Why hadn’t he told Cas that he was glad he’d survived, and that he was back? All he had wanted for months was for Cas to return to him, and now he was here, and he couldn’t even be in the same room as the guy, without his emotions: anger, relief, happiness and who the hell knew what else, threatening to overwhelm him. 

Dean sighed, and shoved a box, making the contents clatter alarmingly. He peeked inside to make sure he hadn’t broken anything, but it was just an assortment of wooden chests. Good, Sam would kill him if he broke something down here before he had a chance to categorize it. He pushed the box out of the way, and walked deeper into vault E-4. The Men of Letters had certainly gathered their fair share of junk. The old light fixtures cast a funny sort of glow across the various knick knacks and files boxes stacked on the shelves. 

He and Sam had first worried that these archives would be dangerous to look through: filled with things like cursed objects, poison lockets or small devices that would snap your fingers off. But, they’d soon found that most of the first archives were safe, and got more dangerous as you went deeper in. Lower numbers were fine. The really deadly stuff was well labeled anyway, so it was easy to just stay in the single digits and browse through the items to his hearts content without fear of burning his eyes out or something really nasty. 

Dean stepped in a little further, letting his eyes trail over the shelves, looking at the thick coating of dust on everything. No one had been down here in sixty years. It was kind of amazing to think about. 

A flash caught his eye, and Dean saw that there was a trunk on the middle shelf, edges all lined in silver filigree. Her pulled it out and saw that the top was inlaid with carvings, painted what probably used to be bright colors. 

Decorating the surface were angelic figures in flowing robes, bearing white feathered wings and standing in beams of light. One of the angels was a man with dark hair and an upturned, earnest face and dammit, Dean had to look away and blink at the blatant reminder of what Cas used to be. 

“Lotta dust down here...” Dean muttered to himself, rubbing at his eyes. 

He pulled the box out further, and opened the latch, mostly to avoid looking at the top anymore, rather than any actual interest at what was inside. The items caught his interest anyway. There was a length of tattered fabric, strangely light and warm for being down in the underground of Kansas, a jar full of feathers of different colors, and then shifting that over, Dean saw a metallic shine just before-

“Ow!” Dean yanked his hand back, sticking his cut finger into his mouth, tasting dust and blood. What the-?

More carefully, he pushed aside the other random crap at the bottom of the trunk, until he saw perpetrator was an angel blade. Just sitting there. It looked like the countless other’s he’d seen and used over the past few years. This one looked to be in good shape; not dulled at all from its years locked away in here.

Dean picked it up, (from the handle this time) and got to thinking. Cas had admitted he’d only had a carved silver knife for protection when he was on his own, and it did little good against the demon that had attacked him anyway. An angel blade would kill a demon, and pretty much anything else along with it. Dean gripped it tighter, grit sticking in the lines of his fingers. 

“Hmm,” He turned it, and then rubbed the dust off against his tee shirt. He stood, and flicked off the light, exiting the archive room, and climbing the stairs leading to the main part of the bunker. 

Most of the lights were off. It was later than he’d realized, and no one had come looking for him, not even when dinner time had rolled around and gone past. Dean rubbed his neck with his free hand, hoping Sam and Cas had at least eaten _something_. 

He ventured into the hall where the twenty-odd bedrooms were lined up. Kevin’s, far down at the end was closed firmly, as was Cas’ next to his own. Sam’s was cracked, though, and a beam of light split the hallway. 

Dean tapped on the door. Sam was reclined on his bed (extra long, the sasquatch) with his laptop on his stomach, something playing on the screen and flashing light across his face. (He looked so much better) He looked up, and paused whatever it was. 

Dean tapped his knuckle on the door frame, holding the angel blade loosely in his other hand. 

“You seen Cas?” Dean asked quietly. Sam sat up, his face sliding into ‘Bitchface 37: You’re being a dick’. He strode over, tugging Dean inside and closing the door. 

“Yeah, I’ve seen Cas. I spent all afternoon with him while you were off wherever.” Sam said, turned back to his room, and leaning on the desk by the door, putting him at eye level. Dean ducked his head at the recrimination in his voice. He knew Sam wasn’t mad that he’d had to hang out with Cas. No one would never use the word _babysit_ but Dean somehow felt like a parent who’d abandoned their child for too long at day care. Something ashamed and slimey slithered to his stomach. 

“How was he?” 

“Upset. Wanted to know where you were.” Sam was annoyed, crossing his arms. Dean leaned back against the opposite door frame from Sam, sighing heavily. 

“What’d you tell him?” He asked, and Sam raised a hand. 

“That I didn’t know.” Sam glanced at the door, as if he could see through the wall to Cas’ bedroom. “Dean, you should   
have been around today. It’s his first day here, first day back with us, and you vanish? I had to reassure him that you were glad he was even alive.”

“Course I’m happy he’s alive.” Dean said, defending himself for the first time. Cas had to at least know that. 

“You haven’t shown it in a way he can understand.” Sam said, sounding so psycho-babbly that Dean knew he was feeling better. 

“Okay, okay, I get it. You know, I came in here looking for him, so it’s not like I planned to avoid him forever.”  
“Yeah, well you should go find him.” Sam said, letting his arms loose. Dean didn’t move quite yet, turning the angel sword over in his hands. Sam eyed it. “By the way, what’s that for?”

Dean held it out, letting Sam take it and run his fingers over the handle. 

“I found it in the archives. I thought I’d give it to Cas, since he lost his knife. Might be nice to have a familiar weapon.”

Sam handed it back, and half smiled. 

“I think that’s a great idea.” Dean lifted one corner of his mouth, and leaned back on the door jamb, then pushing himself off it in one smooth motion. He reached for the door handle, and then turned back to Sam. 

“What’d you two do all day, anyway?” He asked, the question having been nagging at him. 

Sam shrugged. “Researched. He’s been looking for the other angels that fell. He had a ton of notes from when he was on his own.”

“Researched, like on a computer?” Dean asked, trying to picture Castiel squinting at a screen like Sam did. It wasn’t coming. 

“He learned at the library. He’s pretty good at navigation for only starting a few months ago. He had a solid base of leads, and with the tech from Charlie, we may have more sure info soon.”

Dean felt strangely left out, learning that Cas had spent his first day here, eyeballs deep in databases with Sam, though it had been his own fault he wasn’t up here.

“That was all those papers were for?” Dean remembered the duffle Cas had filled with notebooks and print outs; guess he just hadn’t connected the dots. 

“Yeah. Apparently, he spent his days off from work searching and emailing people, and saved money in order to travel out to find them. He’ll probably want to start going out with us once this whole demon thing blows over, and we find out where to go.”

“Hmm,” Dean shrugged. “Might be a good idea. Those angels might be dangerous.”

“I think Cas was thinking more along the lines of _they might need help._

“He would.”

Sam huffed, folding his arms up again. “Well, anyway, will you go talk to him. I think it’d help him to know you aren't mad at him.”

Dean sighed, and leaned a bit heavier against the door. 

“Well, there’s the problem, Sammy. I am mad at him. I’m freaking pissed.”

Sam threw out an arm, his face scrunching up, with those puppy dog eyes on top like no one could ever resist. 

“Then at least tell him that you don’t hate him. I know you don’t, Dean. For crying out loud!”

Dean shoved off the door, and pulled it open, turning his back on his brother. 

“Alright, alright. Geez, he’s gonna hear you.”

Dean let himself out of Sam’s room, and moved across the hall and a little to the right, to Cas’. The door was shut, like he’d seen before, with the light cracked underneath. His nerves climbed, and he realized he was gripping the blade in a ready position, just out of habit. He let out a rush of breath, and loosened his fingers. Poor bastard didn’t need to think he was coming in to attack him or something, on top of everything else between them. 

Another inhale, and Dean lifted his free hand and tapped on the wood.


	6. The Faith Has Been Rudely Shattered

Castiel didn’t expect it to be Dean at the door. It was logical that is was; Dean lived here, after all, and it was unusual for Sam to seek him out, but he still felt an unpleasant jolt of surprise at seeing him poke his head through the crack, once he’d murmured assent. Castiel had been sitting tensely on the bed, flipping through a few of the books that Sam had pressed into his hands at their parting (some tomes and old collections of lore, which he was familiar with, but others were smaller books of fiction that he didn’t know, but that looked diverting). 

Dean looked nervous as he pushed the door open further, his hands close to his sides, shoulders tight. Castiel sat up straighter, crossing his legs underneath him. 

“Hello, Dean.” He greeted, like old times, and Dean flickered a smile at him. 

“Hey, Cas,” He gestured to the end of the bed, where some of his books were scattered. “Can I...?”

Castiel raised his eyebrows, and nodded, pushing the books back into the body of the bed, clearing a space for Dean to sit. Dean settled on the corner, and pulled what he’d been holding into better view, something long and silver. 

“Is that-?” Castiel pushed himself closer, reaching out for it, and ignoring the twinge in his shoulder when he put his weight on it. Dean passed it to him. 

It was an angel blade. Castiel stared at it reverently, running a finger softly over the flat of the blade. It was sharp, dusty, but in good condition. 

“Where did you get this?” It was weighted the same as his old blade had been; it felt no different, moved like an extension of his hand. Castiel had lost his blade, somewhere in the nether space between Earth and Heaven, fallen into the metaphysical junk pile, where his mortal hands could never now reach.

“It was down in the archives. Got locked away sixty years ago. Dunno whose it was, but I figured you needed another sword since you lost your knife. This one will kill demons at least...” Dean trailed off. 

Castiel looked over at him, swallowing a bit. This one wasn’t his. It didn’t connect to his grace, or echo with memory and power like the angel blades did for angels. He couldn’t see which of his brothers or sisters it had belonged to. 

But, it was familiar even so, fitting into his hand easily. It would work for him, and be of great use if Abraxas ever came back. 

There was also the fact that the blade had come from the vaults, and had no chance of belonging to someone he’d killed personally. 

“Thank you,” Castiel said, dropping his eyes again to the line of silver. 

“It’s no big deal. I found it, thought you might like it.”

Castiel nodded, and ran another hand over the handle. 

“Is that where you were all day?” 

Dean stiffened, slightly, then huffed. “Yeah, needed to go through some...stuff...” He tried to laugh. Castiel lowered his eyes to the sword again. A bitter, cold feeling was spreading through him, something that made him frown. His fingers tightened around the handle of the blade. Dean didn’t notice, looking down at his own hands, empty on his lap. 

Something twisted behind his ribs, and a thick anger filled his throat, pressed at the backs of his eyes. Dean had left him alone all day, Dean had dragged him here, only to abandon him, and something about that just-

_Stab him...Stab him, carve him, slice him, kill him!_

A terrible urge, a sudden desire, a voice telling him to take the angel blade Dean had just given him, and shove it into the soft flesh of his throat. It would be easy, the blade was sharp, he was a foot from him-

A stuttering gasp, and Castiel’s back slammed into the headboard, banging it against the wall, and reverberating through the room. The blade dropped from nerveless fingers, rolling off the edge, and thudding against the carpeted floor, innocent now. 

Dean’s face changed in seconds from awkward to concerned, and he surged forward, towards him. Castiel’s breath was loud, uneven, harsh. 

“Cas? What’s the matter? Is it the sword? Sorry, it probably brought back memories for you...” Dean was talking quickly, scooping up the sword, and for a moment, Castiel was sure that Dean’s face would change, become hard and cold, that he’d raise the blade to stab him, but nothing happened.

Castiel, swallowing past bile in his throat, shaking still, raised his hand. “No, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

Dean eyed him, standing a few feet from the bed. 

“You sure? You went white there, man.”

Castiel took a deeper breath, shook himself, and reached out again. 

“You were right, a memory. But I want the sword, Dean. Please.”

“Okay,” Dean placed the sword back in his palm, and Castiel set it on the side table with one smooth motion. His palm was clammy as he released the handle and left it there. 

He stood, and Dean stepped back, watching him. His hands were out a little, like he expected him to fall. Castiel felt a little twinge again, of coldness, of bitterness, but he shook it off. 

“I’m going to take a shower.” He announced, wanting to get away, wanting a distraction from whatever was roiling around inside him, and to get out from under Dean’s worried gaze, and inconsistent concern.

“Alright,” Dean said, as Castiel passed by him to grab his bathroom kit from his still unpacked duffle bag. “Careful of your stitches.”

“I will be.” Castiel left the room without looking at Dean, leaving him standing in the middle of Castiel’s borrowed bedroom. 

_____________

Dean didn’t sleep well that night. He lay on his bed, far too tense, listening for Cas to get back from the showers (it took over an hour), and then waiting to hear the soft moving around noises die down, for him to fall asleep, and wait if he had any more nightmares. Last night’s had been up there in the worst of the categories of subconscious shit, complete with screaming, crying and throwing up. Dean felt a stab of sympathy; they’d all been there.

Not to mention, the horror on Cas’ face as he’d looked at him, panting against the headboard after he’d given him the sword. He definitely wasn’t there for a sec, and Dean worried that that little episode would bring up other junk while Cas slept. 

However, even hours into the night, when Dean was close to nodding off himself, there was no noise from Cas’ room, or any other part of the bunker. The place was quiet, and eventually, even his worry couldn’t stop him from passing out on top of the covers until mid morning. 

Dean sighed, stretched, wincing as the jeans he was still wearing bit into his joints. He’d enjoyed getting into the habit of not sleeping in his clothes, and so he shucked his jeans, and put on the dead guy robe, intending to start the day right: with a long, hot shower.

Afterwards, in the hallway everyone’s doors were still closed. Looked like the residents of the bunker were taking a lie in. He was glad, as Sam could still use all the sleep he could get, and Cas- well, he must have had a better night than the one before, as Dean hadn’t heard a peep. Dean padded through the quiet bunker towards the kitchen, his damp hair chill against his head, thinking about taking out the frozen package of bacon, and whether or not there was a new egg carton under the old one. He was passing through the main entry hallway, when suddenly he stopped, and stared towards the door. 

One of the reasons Dean loved this place, why he felt comfortable walking around barefooted, unarmed and dressed in only a robe, was that the whole bunker was covered and infused with every protection sigil and spell known to man or monster. The woodwork around the entryway, and along the wall was carved deeply, scored with those old comforting signs, and some news ones that Sam had copied out with glee. On top of that, were paintings and gilded things, all layering the protections on top of each other, on every exposed wall. It was usually extremely comforting to look over at it all, and know they were safe from creepy crawlies and beasties of the night. 

But, as he looked over this morning, Dean saw that a section of the wooden carvings, a foot wide square at chest height, was scored through with gouges, crossing five or six large sigils, breaking their power. Rough scratches wandered away from the area as well, before trailing off. 

The thing that sent shivers through Dean’s gut, and rage flaring red behind his eyes was that these marks, this defilement had been done from the inside. 

“Son of a bitch!”

Footsteps and confused voices came up behind him a few minutes later, responding to his enraged shout. Dean was bent over, examining the chunk carved out of the anti-demon sigil next to the door. There was what looked like blood and flecks of skin along the edges, like whoever had done it had scraped his hand. He looked over his shoulder, and saw the rest of the occupants of the bunker standing around behind him. Sam was dressed and frowning, while Cas and Kevin were still in pyjamas. 

“Dean, what is it?” Cas rubbed a hand over sleep tufted hair, and yawned. Kevin blinked around the taller figure, curiosity replacing moodiness for once. 

Dean gestured behind him at the scarred wall. 

“Look at this!” 

Sam’s gaze sharpened, and he stepped closer to examine the wall, running a hand down it carefully to avoid the jagged splinters. 

“What happened?” He asked, and Dean threw up a hand. 

“I have no idea! I came out, and found it like...that!” 

The others came closer, while Dean ranted. 

“Whoever it was knew that they were doing too. They only hit the anti-demon ones. And, gee, don’t we know an inside demon who’d love to have his buddies get in here, and rescue him?” 

Dean turned on his heel, robe whirling after him, his bare feet slapping the floor, ready to confront Crowley right then. Sam caught up to him, and put a hand on his arm. 

“What, Sam? This is our home, and if this bastard-”

“No, it’s not that. Just, do you wanna get dressed first?” 

Dean’s eyes widened, and he looked down at himself. Then, grumbling, he stalked off to his room.


	7. The world, the flesh, and the devil are easily understood

Dean did get dressed, and then he stormed down to Crowley’s new residence, with Castiel and Sam and even a curious Kevin trailing after. Dean pushed open the double doors, heavy iron inlaid with salt, and entered, while Castiel looked at the dungeon he’d heard of, but not seen. It looked less like a prison than a barren bedroom, complete with a mattress, bedding, a stack of books, and even a small television. 

Castiel remembered Dean complaining about Crowley being a terrible houseguest, but he didn’t seem to be causing any trouble at the moment, sitting on his mattress, reading. He was cuffed to a long etched chain that attached to the wall.

He looked up when they entered, eyes flitting from Dean’s angry face, to the rest of them standing back alarmed. It was the first time Castiel had actually seen Crowley since that day in the diner so many months ago, since he’d dug a hand into his stomach and ripped him open to get at the tablet. His hand fluttered up to the spot involuntarily, and then dropped when he saw Crowley’s gaze follow his movement. 

Dean shifted, the moment passing, and his anger filled the room. Crowley didn’t seem to notice. 

“Ah, good morning, squirrel. Where’s breakfast?” Crowley looked past Dean, smirking at Castiel. “Hi, Cas. You’re looking rather less angelic these days, aren’t you? Sorry for that, but Dean’s been glowing since you returned to life.”

Castiel rather doubted that.

“Cas isn’t why we’re here, douchebag. Wanna tell me what you were doing last night?” Dean growled.

Crowley blinked, raised and eyebrow, and gestured around to the dungeon, and his various entertainments. “What you see, Winchester. I don’t have many options, since you lot won’t get me cable.”

Dean didn’t move, his face hard. “Upstairs, Crowley. What were you doing upstairs?” 

With a sardonic look, Crowley raised up his cuffed wrists, making the chain rattle. 

“Sorry to break it to you, sweetheart, but I’m a little tied up.” 

“Mind if I check.” Dean didn’t ask, his mouth smirked upwards in a fake smile. Crowley shrugged, and extended his arms. Dean grabbed his elbow in a vise grip, and examined the cuffs, and then the links all the way to the wall. Crowley watched him do it, looking confused. 

“See, just as you put it on. I haven’t left the dungeon.”

Dean stepped back, jaw jutted forwards.

“Then why are there gouges through the anti-demon sigils on the front door, huh Crowley? Who were you trying to let in?”

Crowley didn’t look nervous, even as Dean leaned into his personal space. He didn’t even try to rise from his seat on the mattress, he just looked confused and even mildly offended. 

“No one. I don't even know where the front door is in this place, let alone where your bloody sigils are.”

Dean continued demanding the truth from Crowley, but Castiel’s eyes caught on his own fingers, and the sound faded from his ears. 

There was a strange color on his knuckles, and palm of his right hand, something rust colored and smeared. He lifted it, unnoticed by the others in the room, and saw that it was blood from torn skin across his hand, like he’d gouged it on something jagged and rough. 

Something slippery iced through his stomach, and he swallowed, and stuck the offending pointer finger in his mouth, pushing his tongue against the flap of skin, and tasting copper. 

Castiel started badly when Dean stormed past him, jolting his shoulder. Sam was behind him, and his face changed from annoyed to concerned when he met Castiel’s eyes. Castiel blinked, and pulled his finger free from his mouth and dropped his old, broken, angelic mask over anything showing on his face. 

Dean held the dungeon door open, a thunderous expression on. “Come on. We need to set up a guard duty.”

Castiel stepped towards the door to follow, but turned back once more to look at Crowley. The demon (or human or whatever he was) was slumped on his mattress, looking only slightly worse for the wear after Dean’s interrogations. Everyone in the room was aware that it 

could have been much worse for him. Crowley blinked, and met his gaze. 

“Humanity suits you, angel.” He said, lips quirking. “Better than it does me, it seems.”

Castiel stared at him, until a hand roughly grabbed his elbow, and tugged him backwards. Dean’s voice growled behind him. 

“Don’t you talk to him.” He said, and Crowley snorted, and waved a hand. 

Dean all but dragged him out of the dungeon, letting the reinforced iron doors slam behind them. Then he let out a ragged breath, pulling a hand down his face. 

“Dean-” Sam started, but Dean straightened, and waved a hand, turning his back on Sam and Castiel to walk away. 

“Save it Sam.” He stalked off, leaving the other two alone in the hallway. Sam made a frustrated noise. 

“Dammit,” Sam muttered. “It was supposed to be safe here. What could have done this?” 

Castiel pushed his hands into his pockets, ignoring the ill feeling in his stomach. He lifted one shoulder up and then down, stiff and ungainly, unlike the shrugs he knew how to do now. 

“I don’t know.”

____

The day passed in tension. Castiel found himself hiding deep within the bowels of the bunker, away from Crowley, and Dean and Sam and the broken sigils, chewing on his knuckles and sick with something terrible. Dean was sat in the entryway, watching the wall, waiting for something to break through. Sam wandered between the library, the kitchen and Dean trying to get him to eat something at least, or let   
him take a turn guarding. 

Castiel just headed downwards, and found a dark corner. He sat and pulled his sore hands out of his pockets, laying them in his lap, knuckles up. He winced as the torn skin welled with new blood at the movements. Castiel let it dry in brown globules while he sat. What was happening? Mysterious defacement of the protections on this place, and the night it happens, Castiel has these terrible, sickening dreams and wakes with tears and scratches on his hands. 

Could he be doing this?

Castiel fisted his fingers in his hair, and slumped back against the wall. It wouldn’t be the first time he had done things under someone elses control. When he was an angel, with Naomi digging in his brain, he could never be sure. But now as a human, he’d thought he was free from that at least. He wanted to weep at the possibility that this wasn’t true.

On the other hand, and possibly even more terrifying, was the notion that he was simply losing his mind. It wouldn’t be the first time. What if everything that had happened to him had caused his mind to break again. What if he wasn’t even with Dean, and the breaking of the sigils was his subconscious trying to free him from this mental jail. He could be lying on a hospital bed in those terrible white pyjamas right now...

Castiel bit on his knuckle hard, blood flooding his tongue, gasping around the panic. He took a shaky breath, and did it again, feeling the cold wall pressing into his shoulder blades, and the pain in his hands sharp and present. His stomach churned, and he wanted to throw up the blood he’d swallowed, having eaten nothing else today, but he just sat very still and waited. He tried to ignore how his hands were shaking by keeping his finger crooked against his mouth.


	8. Are jumbles of animal passions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again, I was without from wifi for a few days.

“Where you been, Cas? We drew straws for the night shift.” Dean demanded that evening when Castiel entered the main room. He was sitting at the war room table, and Sam was across from him. Castiel had washed the blood of his hands, and splashed his face too for good measure, trying to calm the rising anxiety in his chest. He didn’t answer Dean’s question, simply shrugging as he sat in a chair at the war table beside Sam. Dean’s eyes stayed on him as he moved, but Castiel did not meet them. 

“Anyway, you have first shift at the door, “ Dean continued. “I’ll move down in front of the dungeon, and Sam will relieve you after four hours.”  
Then Castiel looked up, feeling a jolt of alarm. They were leaving him alone in front of the sigils? What if he did something to them? But the instructions were simple, mindless, something he’d done for thousands of years on earth and before. Protection was second nature, but something twisted in him, telling him it wasn’t safe, not to be on his own, it wasn’t safe _from him._

He nodded towards the table, agreeing because he didn’t know how to protest, how to say that he couldn’t be trusted to keep Dean’s home safe, while his fingers emerged from his pocket and found their way to his mouth again, chewing at the jagged skin on his pointer finger. 

“What’s the matter with you? You look like you have ants in your pants.” Dean was frowning at him. 

Castiel frowned, hating these idioms he still didn’t understand. Dean’s gaze sharpened, and he reached across the table to grab Castiel’s wrist, pulling his fingers free of his teeth. Panic fluttered and Castiel jerked back, but even after months of scrubbing floors, Dean was stronger than his human form and didn’t let go. 

“What the hell is this?”

Castiel opened his mouth, filled with the insane urge to say “it wasn’t me!”

“Have you been doing this to yourself?” Dean said, voice softer than he’d expected. Castiel pulled his arm again, panic and anger lending him strength. 

“Dean, leave it alone!” He snapped, and shoved his arms below the line of the table, out of Dean’s sight. Sam beside him was blinking at them, awkward. 

Castiel kept his eyes down, trying to look at anything besides Dean’s furious gaze. He swallowed, and stood, pushing his hands into his pockets again. Dean’s glare was boring into the side of his head. 

“I’ll get my sword and start now.” Castiel tried to make his voice toneless. Then he turned and left the room without turning back. 

_________________

 

It was dark when Castiel came to, standing upright with a sharp pain across his right knuckles. He blinked, confused, dizzy with sleep and aware that the wooden wall by the front door, the one he’d been staring at in Dean’s assigned guard duty was much closer than it had been, and he was mid stroke through another sigil. He was pressing his sword blade first into the wood, angled badly, and digging his hand into the scrape, trailing blood and skin and splinters.

Eyes wide, head spinning, he stepped back, and saw in the dim glow of the lamp the expanse of gouges, criss crossing through sigil after sigil, even scoring deeply the few that Dean had tried to fix. His ribcage felt frozen, and he could not get enough air. He panted, panic stilling his body, statue-like until...

He scrambled backwards, the sword dropping to the ground with a thud, sending the splinters and wood chips on the ground bouncing into the air. Castiel staggered, and then his eyes caught the new wounds across his hands; already scabby from his chewing and biting, and now bleeding from deeper scrapes.   
It _was_ him. He’d been sabotaging the bunker, had been threatening the safety of Dean’s home. 

He gasped again, staring, before he turned and fled.

 

________________

“Shut up, Crowley!” Dean yelled, not lifting his chin from his hand, elbow propped on the arm rest. The sort of human ex-King of Hell had not appreciated the suspicion Dean had placed on him early that day (even though it was completely valid, thank you very much) and had retaliated by singing loudly and intentionally off key. Now, Dean loved Queen as much as the next guy, but it was nearly midnight and a man had his limits.   
There was a muffled insult through the iron door, but the singing did ease off for which Dean was eternally grateful. 

Dean sighed, and shifted around in the chair he’d dragged down to the hallway. It was chilly down here, away from the rest of the bunker, and he honestly felt like he was getting too old for these long watches. In his younger days, a seat in a cold stone bunker at midnight would be nothing to bat an eye at, but now he longed for a coffee to ease the itchiness tugging at his eyelids, or even better his memory foam mattress.

He groaned, and pushed the thought away. _Getting soft there, Winchester?_

Dean filled his lungs, and flicked his eyes to the ceiling. Soon, Sam would go and switch with Cas, and then in another four hours, Dean would finally finally get to go to bed. He moved again, settling down, and then glancing upwards again. Worry twisted his gut, thinking of Cas. 

At first, he had thought it was just Cas’ personality now, since he’d fallen and been on his own: angry, snappish, and prone to skittishness. Honestly, it was understandable. But the more time went by, the more _episodes_ Cas had, the more Dean thought that there was something really wrong. He’d nearly been panicking at the thought of standing guard at the door, Dean found he was having a hard time keeping his attention on his station and off the ceiling, towards the entryway where Cas stood. All was silent though, both in the dungeon behind him (save for the annoying singing) and upstairs.  
Then, like in that stupid poem, there arose a clatter. A panicked pounding of footsteps running coming towards him. Dean stood, heart pounding. 

“Cas?” Dean called out. Then the ex-angel himself came flying (well, running) down the stairwell, nearly tripping over himself in his hurry. His face was pale, sweaty, and the whites of his eyes stood out. 

“Cas! What’s happening?” Dean demanded, his demon knife at the ready. Cas didn’t pause, didn’t stop. “Cas!” Dean grabbed his arm, jerking Cas to a stop, wincing as the momentum pulled him a step. Cas wasn’t still, bucking and pulling, making small terrified noises that struck through Dean’s chest.

“Let go of me!” Castiel gasped, twisting his arm in Dean’s grasp. 

“What’s going on with you?” Dean swore as Cas yanked out of his grip, and then ducked around him, and through the dungeon doors. Dean followed him inside to see Cas, his chest heaving, in front of a standing Crowley. He was gripping his hands together, rubbing back and forth and Dean could see blood   
on his fingers when he came around to stand to Castiel’s side. 

Crowley looked alarmed, and met Dean’s eyes as if to say, _Your angel’s fruit loops again, Dean_. 

Cas took another breath, and then held his hands out to Crowley, palm down, showing him his knuckles.

“Look!” Crowley flinched back at the sudden movement. 

“Careful there, handsy.”

“Cas, what’s gotten into you?” Dean asked, careful now. Cas jerked his hands back, pressing them against his chest, smearing blood and making a terrible choking noise. It took a moment for Dean to realize that he was laughing. 

“Into me... that’s what I’m afraid of, Dean.” Castiel chuckled once, and then it devolved into panicked breathing. His fingers, the knuckles torn from his own teeth or something else clenched into his shirt fabric. Dean was trying to stay calm, but he was freaking out, heart pounding. Visions of the last crazy Cas, and all that that had entailed flashed through his mind. This version was less flower crown and more laughing at nothing, and Dean was just glad that Cas didn’t seem to have any weapons. He wondered what happened to the angel blade. 

“Cas, man, you gotta calm down. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Cas took another breath, sucked in like he was drowning, and then started pacing in front of Crowley, back and forth. The demon and the hunter both watched him. 

Cas muttered. “I think I’m going crazy.”

“Again.” Crowley said under his breath, and Dean hit him. 

Castiel wheeled around again, on the nearest part of his circuit. 

“Crowley, I need to know...if it’s possible, if I’m imagining it...You’ve got to tell me the truth” His fist was over his chest, and his other hand floated near his teeth. “Tell me, Crowley!” 

Crowley was staring at Cas, and then his eyes flickered to Dean. Dean made an encouraging gesture, keep him talking. 

“Uh... what?” 

Pacing again, back and forth over the lines of the devils traps in the floor, Castiel growled. 

“Last week, I was attacked by a demon. I think he did something to me, something’s wrong, I feel it...”

“What do you feel?” Crowley asked, frowning in thought. 

“Ice, cold...in my chest. Uh, urges to do things, violence...” Cas pressed against his shirt again. Dean felt a chill go through him at Cas’ words, remembering each moment of strange rage in Cas’ eyes, and clenched fists. “I get so angry. I want to hurt people sometimes.” He whispered. His eyes flickered to Dean, and then he closed them. Dean shifted his jaw. 

Crowley was peering at Cas. “Who was it?”

“Abraxas.”

That made the demon blink. “Abraxas. He hasn’t been seen in centuries.”

“Abaddon woke him.” Castiel murmured, opening his eyes. They were bloodshot, and terrified. 

“Well, he certainly could do it...”

Dean snapped. “Alright, someone wanna tell me what’s going on? What’s wrong with Cas?”

Cas flinched at his loud tone, and Crowley raised an eyebrow. 

“It’s an ancient spell, very difficult and painful. I’ve never heard of it being done, but if anyone could it would be Abraxas. It involves breaking off a part of your little demon soul, sticking it in someone, sealed with a kiss, and then sort of remote controlling from there.”  
Dean felt sick. 

“Hold on, hold on. Are you saying there’s a demon thing inside him? Controlling him?”

“Well, he would have had to kiss him. Did he kiss you?” Crowley asked Cas. Dean raised his eyebrows. Cas, pale and still, nodded slightly. “Well, there you go. Except it’s not exactly a control, more of an influence. Just enhances negative emotions, controls dreams a bit, location finding, etc. Much more subtle than a full possession, but harder to maintain.”

Dean glanced at Cas, and saw him standing there, stock still and barely breathing. He was oatmeal white and shaking. Dean needed to get him out of here, needed to figure out how to get him better. He stepped closer. 

“Cas, we’ll figure this out, okay?” He put his hand out, and made contact. Cas took a gasping breath, starting badly. He intended to shake him out of it, but the second he touched him, Cas moved. Faster than Dean, with a fear induced surge of strength, Castiel attacked with a block that stung his reaching wrist, and then two strikes to his side and solar plexus, knocking the breath out of him. Then, before he could recover, Dean felt himself shoved back into the wall, and cold metal wound around his throat. Cas pinned him, the heat of his body immobilizing him completely, thigh across legs, and his arms pinned and twisted in the ex-angel’s shirt. Castiel held the chain from the wall against his throat, cutting off most of his air supply. 

Dean wheezed, feeling a sickening deja vu, except Cas’ eyes weren’t dead this time. They were alive with rage, and heat, fierce and deadly. He was heaving, his lungs working against Dean’s stuttering ones, his breath hot against Dean’s cheek. 

“Cas-” Dean gasped, “Don’t...”

Logically, now Dean knew that this was that dark influence of Abraxas, that demon slime that they _were_ going to get out of him. It was just like   
Naomi again, break the control. Get through to him.

But Crowley had said it wasn’t control, it couldn’t make him do something that he didn’t already want to do. And that meant that there was a part of Cas that _wanted_ to do this, wanted to strangle him. 

“Please-” The chain squeezed tighter, choking off his words. Dean scrabbled his hands between them, trying to claw upwards, and release the pressure on his wind pipe, the thickness growing in his head. He sucked in a breath, thin and not enough. 

Then, cold pure air! The pressure released, and he could breath again. Cas staggered backwards and Dean stumbled away from the wall, coughing, trying to pull in enough oxygen to stop the room from spinning. He planted his hands on his knees and willed his head to clear. 

Cas was gasping too, near sobs from just a few feet away, and Dean looked up after a minute to meet his round eyes. 

“Cas...” Dean rasped. As if his voice was a trigger, Castiel moved, shaking his head. 

“I’m sorry-” He choked, and then he turned tail, running out with limbs loose from panic. Dean stared after him, willing his legs to follow, but they wouldn’t, not yet. More air first. 

Crowley shifted to his right. Dean had forgotten he was there, and he turned to meet his glance. Crowley looked him up and down, and then smiled. 

“Well, that was kinky.”


	9. As One Who Hunts A Dream

This was happening far too often, a small part of Castiel’s mind whispered. The rest of him was occupied with not crashing into the walls as he tore through the bunker, heaving in panic, his heart pounding in his ears and cutting off the call of Dean, and the surprised note of Sam as he passed him by.   
What he’d nearly done...

He could still feel the way the wall of Dean’s throat gave away against his push, the way he struggled against him, ineffectually shoving at his chest, but unable to get free. He could have killed Dean in that moment, so easily, and a part of him wanted to push just a little harder. The thought terrifies him. This time he was _there_ , not in Heaven under Naomi’s control; Crowley said the demon could influence but not control, and the thought made him nauseous.

Castiel slammed through the metal doors of the bunker, and out into the cool night air. It was immediately soothing to his flushed face and stinging eyes.   
He should have stayed, asked Crowley how to get it out, but Dean’s face turning red, choking under his hands. This hellish influence was only pulling up feelings that were already there, ones he hated and tried to hide and forget. The rage that had surged up when he’d touched him; everything between him and Dean that he tried to never think about because it hurt and it wasn’t fair to be mad at Dean when he’d done so much _shit_. He had no right to swallow a bitter taste every time Dean was callous or cruel...but he did. 

Castiel pulled in a breath, and lifted his head, his gaze fixing on the stars. The position felt much like the night he’d fallen, and then watched his brothers and sisters plummet to the earth. Like now, his emotions were in a turmoil that night too, but the sight of the stars, and a few deep breaths were calming him. He exhaled slowly.

“That was quite a hot little scene back there.” Said a voice from behind him. It was chillingly familiar and far too close, and Castiel froze. “Frankly, I’m jealous. I thought we had that spark, you know?”

Slowly, Castiel turned around. Anger rose again, but this time a pure disgusted anger that shoved away all his fear and panic of the last few days. Here was something he could kill. 

“Abraxas.” Castiel growled, and the demon laughed in response, stepping out of the shadows. Surrounding him were six other demons, riding the bodies of poor attractive men and women that seemed to always attract the demonic host. 

Abraxas smirked and cocked a hip, tilting his head. “Well, Cas. I suppose I just can’t compete with _Dean_.” 

Castiel flexed his fingers, wishing for his blade. In the haze of panic, he couldn’t remember where he’d dropped it. 

“You put something inside me.”

“Figured out that much, did we? Did you like it? I did.” Abraxas smiled a sickening grin. Castiel narrowed his eyes. 

“Take it out.”

“Mn, no. It’s incredibly useful, you know.” Abraxas replied, picking at a nail. 

“Is that how you found me? Tracking me here,” Castiel felt a sharp pang of regret at allowing himself to be brought here. He’d led the demons right to Sam and Dean’s front door, which was the last thing he’d wanted.

Abraxas twisted his mouth to the side. “If only it was that easy. You, sir, need to get out more. Slept the whole way here, and then didn’t come outside again for days. I mean, come on!”

Castiel frowned. 

“What does that mean?”

“Oh, it took some effort. I could see what you saw, feel what you felt, but I couldn’t find you. Really embarrassing, you know. I was starting to get nervous.” Abraxas clapped his hands together. “But here you are, looking at the stars. I used to be a ship's navigator, so it was easy to pin your location after that.”  
Castiel tried to control himself, kept his old calm mask, but his insides were quivering, twisting with anger, fear and violation. The cold spot that was the demon’s influence was so chill it burned. 

Abraxas grinned widely, pleased with himself. He walked over to the metal wall of the bunker, and tapped on it. His nails made dull thuds and then he clicked his tongue. 

“Didn’t quite finish, I see.” He turned and brushed his hands together, like the touch of the Winchesters left a residue he wanted to wipe off. “No matter. They’ll come out eventually. I do have a hostage, after all.”

Castiel’s fingers twitched, and he was far too aware of the two demons who’d edged around behind him, ready to restrain him should he attempt any of the things he was longing to do. He wanted to grab Abraxas by the throat and strangle him, or better yet, fill the black pit inside the demon with the light of his grace, and burn it into nothingness. But he kept himself still, face impassive.

“So why scratch at the sigils. It seems a slow way to get inside.”

Abraxas shrugged. 

“Either you’d break through, or you’d come outside. I just had to wait.”

“I could hardly do a good job in my sleep.” Castiel lifted a hand and turned it to show the bloody knuckles. “I broke more skin than protections.”

“Yes, it was a little tedious, but as you learned from that pitiful excuse for a demon, I can’t control you. Not when you’re conscious.”

A chill settled through Castiel, anew over the ball of ice. 

“Why so little, then? You could have had me kill Sam and Dean in their beds, or leave and come to you, or anything else your depraved mind came up with.” Abraxas looked halfway between amused and annoyed. 

“Yes, it could have been done much quicker, but I was enjoying seeing you squirm. And, a dream about killing the Winchesters would have woken you up before you could do much damage-those nightmares always do, don’t they?”

A little relief at that. 

“So what now? We wait for my friends to walk out into your trap. They’re Winchesters, they’ll know something’s wrong. They won’t fall for it.”

“I think differently. You’re little lovers spat with Dean will have him all in a tizzy. He’s bound to come looking for you.”

Castiel swallowed, and hoped Dean would be smarter than that. He let his eyes flicker around the area, taking in the door to the bunker- mere feet away- the deep shadows of the woods to the side of the road, the loose gravel and parked Impala directly in front of the steps to the door. If he could get past the line of enchantments, and back to safety, or distract them long enough to-

Abraxas snapped his fingers, and the two demons who’d been hovering stepped up quickly, and grabbed his arms. He struggled briefly, but they held him tight. 

“Come on, Cas. I could feel you scheming.” He said, half smiling. 

Anger seethed inside him, at himself for waiting too long to move, for taking the time to relieve his curiosity. He wished he could call out to Dean, the way that Dean used to pray to him; tell him not to come out for anything, to leave him until Abraxas got bored waiting and took him away. 

Unfortunately, that wouldn’t have worked even had he still been an angel, as Dean didn’t even have the capacity to listen like that. And he wouldn’t follow such an order anyway.

It didn’t matter, as moments later the clunking and clanging of the metal door opening sounded and Dean walked casually out of the bunker, his gait easy and relaxed. 

Castiel opened his mouth to yell a warning, but the demons moved too fast, one of them elbowing him in the stomach and the other three overcoming Dean. With of yell of surprise, Dean was seized and pulled to his knees, his arms and legs splayed and outstretched painfully. Castiel could see the reddened bruises blooming on his neck, where he’d choked him, and felt illness shoot through him. 

Dean struggled for a moment, and then stilled when he caught sight of Castiel. Abraxas chuckled from the sidelines of the struggle, and Dean’s eyes flickered to him, and then to Castiel again. 

“What the hell is going on? You okay, Cas?”

“He’s perfect.” Abraxas purred, and Dean’s eyes narrowed, traveling down Abraxas’ body, lifting an eyebrow. 

“This the demon that got you? He’s kinda wimpy looking. We gotta work on your training.” Dean lifted his jaw, and earned a cuff around the head from one of the demon’s holding him. Abraxas merely smiled at the insult, and stepped close to Dean. He ran a soft hand down Dean’s face, and Dean’s cheek twitched as he tried not to cringe back. A hot flash of rage seared the ice in Castiel’s chest for a moment. 

“Don’t touch him!” He snapped. Abraxas pulled his hand back, and smirked. 

“Someone jealous?” 

Castiel stayed silent. Abraxas turned to a demon and snapped his fingers again. 

“Search him.”

Dean stayed very still as the demonic hands ran down his body, under his jacket and shirt, and around the waistband of his jeans. They pulled out his usual gun, Ruby’s knife, and then to his surprise, the angel blade he’d dropped inside. Castiel’s eyes followed the dull silver shine until the demons stepped back, and Dean sagged a little. Dean then met his gaze and smiled a little, eyebrow raised. 

“You dropped it back there. Thought you might need it back.” He said. Castiel felt his face soften, his heart clenching at Dean’s forgiveness. He sent him a small smile, gratitude pinching him. Even after every hurt Castiel had laid on him, Dean still found some small faith in him. It was incomprehensible, but touching. 

Abraxas sighed dramatically. 

“Well, this is lovely, but let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”

Dean straightened as much as he could, giving off perfect ease even though his body was forced into a half bowed position. 

“So what’s the plan, then? Possession? Torture? Killing? Been there, done that, bought the tee shirt.” A cold smile hitched up Dean’s lips, so different than the one he’d had directed at Castiel. 

Castiel swallowed his nerves at Dean’s easy mockery. He recalled a scene years ago, when Dean had done the same thing to a trapped Raphael. He didn’t feel any better about it now than he did then.

Abraxas crossed his arms, sighing a bit. 

“Well, honestly I don’t know what’s in store for you. Abaddon wants you. All of you. We have to wait for Sammy, she’s especially ticked off at him, and then we’ll get going. As for in the meantime, there’s no reason we can’t have a little fun while we wait.”

Dean snorted. “You really think that will work? Sam’s not just gonna come waltzing out into your waiting arms, he’s smarter than that.”

“It worked on you, my dear.” Abraxas said to Dean. Dean’s smile didn’t falter. 

“I never said I was the smart one.” 

As if on cue, a strange spitting noise started coming from all around them, all along the line of the building. A few seconds in which the demons and Castiel all looked around stupidly, and then a cold spray began to rain down on the group. The demons immediately began screaming, steaming from burns when the water hit their exposed skin. Dean shook off his bucking restrainers, and stood, grinning. 

“Holy water sprinklers, you assholes!” He yelled, and lunged towards the one that held his weapons.

Sam ran from the back side of the bunker, bearing an angel blade, and fell in with the knot of writhing demons. 

Castiel jerked free of his captors, and dug an elbow into the nose of the closest, before swinging his leg under them both and sending them to the ground.   
Abraxas was growling, yelling in pain and anger as the holy water dripped down his face leaving a nasty burn in its wake. The water was cold to Castiel, but he didn’t notice through the pump of adrenalyn and rage. Castiel blinked some water out of his eyes, and stepped towards Abraxas, gritting his teeth at this thing that had dared threaten his family, and violate him with its evil. 

“Cas,” Dean’s voice cut through the chaos, and then his blade flashed through the downpour for him to catch in a slick palm. Castiel gripped his sword, feeling that old righteous anger, that might. In that moment, he didn't even miss his grace. 

The water still poured down, running along the planes of Castiel’s face, and waterlogging his clothes, but he barely noticed as he turned and slit the throat of the nearest demon. They were all distracted, burning and screaming at the pain, save for Abraxas. He kept enough of his wits to move to the edge of the spray, and step out from the line of falling water. 

He looked back, and met Castiel’s eyes through the stream. His chin lifted, and Castiel responded, stepping forward determinately. His fear of this creature was gone, but Abraxas grinned as he approached. 

“Just you and I again, darling. It does pose a wonderful literary parallel.”

Castiel stood straight, just inside the line of water, still in safety. His hand gripped his blade, feeling again like an avenging angel, like he hadn’t for so long. 

“You will take your filth out of me, and then I will destroy you.” Castiel said. Abraxas titled his head. 

“You know, neither one is _really_ a good option for me. Is there a choice number three?”

Castiel bowed his head, narrowing his eyes, not breaking his gaze. He lifted his sword into a ready position. Abraxas took this in, and smiled. 

“That’s more like it.” He drew a long knife, almost a machete and mirrored Castiel’s fighting stance. A grim smile edged onto both of their faces. 

As one, they leapt forward, blades extending. Castiel swiped at Abraxas’ throat, and Abraxas jerked back, spinning on one foot to put him under Castiel’s attack. He pushed his blade forward, and Castiel dodged it, blocking the arm strike with his forearm. They paused for a moment, suspended, before Abraxas kicked out, and caught Castiel in the stomach. 

He fell back, gasping. Abraxas straightened up, grinning now, and lunged forward again. Castiel’s heart pounded. He wasn’t used to this, not as a human, and his breath wasn’t coming. His wet clothes weighed him down, and made his joints slow and cold. He needed to finish this quickly. 

Castiel caught Abraxas’ descending arm, and held it back, grunting with the effort. Abraxas growled, trying to push it down, the point hovering over his chest. Castiel twisted around, and shoved him back hard enough to send him to the ground. While he was down, Castiel flipped the blade in his fingers, and jumped forward, trying to dig the sword into Abraxas’ exposed back. The demon was fast, though, and he righted himself, to meet him blade to blade as he came down. The crash shuddered up the bones in Castiel’s arm, and then a fist slammed into his cheek. 

Castiel fell back, and rolled, before coming to his feet again. The spray of holy water was right behind, pricking cold on the skin of his neck. Abraxas snarled at him, teeth white in darkness as Castiel took the moment of cover to breathe past the pain in his cheekbone. 

“More of a challenge this time, I see.” Abraxas said. “Got your old angel toy back.”

A glare. “I’ve been fighting with a blade for a millenia. You won’t win, demon.”

“But, do you want to win? That little piece of me won’t die if you kill me. It’ll just stay, rotting and decaying the rest of your soul, until you’re just like me.”  
Abraxas lunged forward in the wake of his words, and Castiel hurriedly lifted his fallen guard, and caught Abraxas in a long gash along the side. He turned, and dodged another strike, and lost his holy water wall. 

Their blades crossed again, and Abraxas pulled his face close to his own. 

“You’ll be twisted and evil, and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.” He whispered. Castiel roared, and threw off his sword arm, catching him under the weak side with another stab wound. Not deep enough, but Abraxas staggered backwards, cringing and laughing. 

“I don’t believe you!” Castiel rushed him again, and in his haste didn’t block. He gasped as a hot pain pierced his side, just above his hip bone. Warm blood flowed, but Abraxas didn’t finish the job, pulling back instead. Castiel put his empty hand to the wound. 

“Do you want to chance it, Cas?” Abraxas was too close, gloating over Castiel hunched form. Castiel panted, feeling the liquid running out, and the beginnings of shock shiver through him. Every part of him didn’t want to believe what Abraxas was saying, _demon’s lie, demons’ lie_ was pulsing through his brain, but then Dean’s voice came to him, saying they’d figure it out. It would be okay. And he trusted Dean far more than this demon here. 

With a yell of pain and anger, Castiel shoved his blade up, and into the soft flesh of Abraxas’ belly, just under his ribcage. The blade went in easily, straight up into his heart. Abraxas jerked, eyes wide and light flashed around the wound, and through his ribs, out the eye sockets. He gasped, once, and then fell forward heavily onto the ground. 

Castiel jerked his sword out. A moment passed, and then as the dying lights flickered a new pain came searing up inside Castiel’s ribcage. The ball of ice and demonic essence was spasming, igniting, burning through him. Castiel cried out, stumbling to the ground, and landing on his knees. He pressed his hands to the fire and watched with horror as the same flickering demonic lights showed the bones of his own chest underneath his grasp. 

“Cas!” Dean’s voice sounded, close to his ear, but Castiel couldn’t respond. He groaned, and squeezed his eyes shut so he didn’t have to see the hell fire consume his body, writhing as he distinctly felt hands grab him and hold him, a desperate grip around his shoulders, and cradling his head. 

The pain ramped up, and he screamed. Then something horrid was twisting just behind his throat, and Castiel was turned to the side, choking on ash and sulphur. He leaned out of Dean’s arms, and gagged out a stream of black-not liquid, but smoke. The demon essence spun out from his mouth, and hit the ground, burning black and orange into the dirt. Castiel coughed again, and gasped. 

Things were still for a moment, save the heavy up and down of Castiel’s chest, and the pounding of Dean’s heart behind his back. Inside, he felt wrung dry, but clean, no longer tainted. The relief was greater than he could have imagined, making him limp-limbed. 

“Cas?” Dean’s voice was right above him, and Castiel flickered his closed eyes, opening them to see Dean’s face. “Cas, are you okay?” Dean was dripping water on him from his hair and the end of his nose. Castiel huffed a little. 

He squinted up at Dean. “You’re getting me wet.” He stated, and Dean blinked. 

“You’re just as soaked as I am, you bastard.” Dean said after a moment, breaking into a laugh that Castiel could feel in Dean’s chest and all through him. Dean then dragged him upwards, throwing his arms around Castiel’s back and shoulders. Castiel let out a long shaky breath, and tucked his face into Dean’s neck. He clutched back, and his chest hitched. 

“Dean, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault.”

Castiel nodded slightly, and pulled back. The adrenalyn and aftershock of the fight and the demon thing dying was fading and Castiel was becoming highly aware of the stab wound in his side.

“You okay?” 

“Ah, not entirely.” He put a shaky hand against it, and Dean swore and removed the hand to look at the wound, and then covered Castiel’s hand with his own. 

“Doesn’t look too bad. We’ll get you patched up. What about the demon thing?”

Castiel nodded. “It’s gone.”

Sam came over then, his long hair plastered to his head and a grin on his face. 

“That was some fight, Cas.” He said, kneeling down, and patting him on his shoulder. “Dean was biting his nails the whole time.”

Dean shot Sam a look, but then smiled at Castiel all the same.


	10. You are no false ideal

All the demons were dead, having been killed in the distraction of the holy water sprinklers within minutes of the surprise attack. Sam and Kevin had thought them up as a line of defence a while ago, and this was the first time they’d gotten to try it out. Dean explained, as he bandaged the stab wound, that it was Crowley that told them that the demons were outside, allowing them to get the advantage. Sam and Kevin waited around the building, and Dean walked out the front, pretending to fall into their trap, while really setting one for the rest of them. 

Abraxas had been the last to die, and though Dean had wanted to step in and just kill the demon, Sam had stopped him, and allowed Castiel to fight him on his own. Castiel had been too caught up to notice his audience, but he was grateful for their support and he was extremely grateful that he’d gotten to kill the bastard himself. 

Dean insisted on installing panels of protective sigils and spells, some of them dredged up from Castiel’s faintest memories, to replace the once Castiel had broken. Castiel helped with the casting and carving as much as he was allowed with a painful side and stitches that tore too easily. He earned calluses on his hands in the place of scabs and scrapes. 

A little more than a week later, time spend healing and fixing what he’d broken, Castiel flipped his cheap phone closed, a feeling of peace and rightness conflicting with his nerves. He crossed the library, and tapped on the kitchen door. 

Dean was in front of the stove, shifting to grab bottles of spices in succession and adding them to the wonderful smelling pot on the burner. He turned at Castiel’s knock, and his face brightened in welcome. 

“Cas, hey, what’s up?”

Castiel came fully in, and took a seat at the steel kitchen island in the middle of the room. 

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel replied, still unsure of the proper response to ‘what’s up?’. “Nothing...is up...as such.” 

Dean chuckled. “You can just say, not much, or nothing. Unless something is up, and then you say that.”

Castiel nodded, grateful for those moments when Dean taught him, rather than mocked him for his inexperience at human communication. 

“Well, in that case, something is...up.” 

Dean tilted his head a bit. “Oh?”

Tapping his fingers on the metal, looking at the healing scars left on the knuckles, Castiel took a moment before responding. 

“I just spoke with my employer.” 

Dean stilled, and then turned back to the stove, stirring the pot. He nodded towards the burner, and Castiel wished he could see his eyes. 

“Angela, right. What’d she say?”

Castiel swallowed. 

“She called to ask when I was coming back to work. I told her soon.”

The silence stretched out. Dean didn’t move, holding the spoon to stir inches above the surface of the soup. Then he tossed it down, and turned around, a terrible fake smile on his face. 

“Great, that’s great. Glad you can get back to your life.” His voice was flat, and Castiel felt a surge of alarm, and irrationally, irritation. 

“You’re upset.” He stated, and Dean huffed. “You knew I had to get back to work after this was all over. You said it was temporary.”

Dean’s calm broke, and his teeth clenched. “Dammit, Cas! I only said that so you’d come.”

“You lied. You, what? Want to keep me trapped here?” Castiel felt angry, like he had so often since Dean came back into his life, but he did take slight comfort in the fact that it was his own, and no one elses. And, he didn’t feel the urge to stab or strangle Dean...punch him maybe. 

Dean slammed his hand on the metal counter, making the utensils rattle. 

“No, I don’t want to trap you, you idiot! I just-” He cut himself off, and turned, working his jaw. “I hoped...”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed. 

“Hoped what?” 

Dean turned back, meeting his gaze with fury and worry and fear all swirling. 

“Hoped you’d want to stay.” 

Oh.

Castiel froze in shock. Somehow, that was a surprise. It shouldn’t have been, now that he thought of it. Dean had never made it a secret that he wanted   
Castiel to not fly off as often as he did. But, he never thought that now, powerless and useless, that Dean would want him back. 

“Well, that’s ridiculous.” Was his only spluttered response. Dean blinked, and frowned, defensive. 

“What are you talking about?”

Castiel felt a tight feeling in his throat, and swallowed against it. 

“You don’t want me in your life, Dean. I’ve done so much, and I’m still so angry and new at this, and I can’t do anything. I’m just a liability, a waste of space.”

Dean, his shoulders loosening, pulled out the stool on the other side, and sat down across from him. Castiel’s hands were twisted up together on the table, and Dean put his own hand out, flat mere inches from his fingers. 

“Cas, listen to me, just for one freaking minute, okay? I don’t care about all that. I’m screwed up in the head too. I drink too much, I don’t sleep well, and I’m pissed a lot of the time. We've both got more than enough between us to be angry at each other for.”

Castiel had to nod, remembering the rage he’d felt dredged up by the demon influence. It didn't create that feeling. 

“It isn’t fair to be angry at you. I’m the one who’s hurt you, Dean. So badly, over and over. My own feelings should be inconsequential.”

Dean lifted his hands off the table, and rubbed at his brow, gesturing with the other. 

“I’ve hurt you too. I know it.” He shrugged. “I know it seems like the Winchester way, but it isn’t healthy to deny your feelings like that- and don’t tell Sam I said that. He might think I actually listen to him.”

Castiel couldn’t help but chuckle, a tiny bit. “Sam gives good advice, I think. He told me...he said, you were glad to find me. That I was alive. Even if you didn’t act like it.”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, my head was pretty messed up. But, I am. Glad that is. If you knew...” He looked down, and scoffed. “Damn, I’m not good at this.”

Castiel nodded. “Neither am I.”

There was a silent moment, and then Castiel caught Dean’s eyes again. 

“I never wanted to kill you, Dean. It seems like I need to say that.”

Dean rubbed at his wrist with his opposite thumb. “Well, glad about that...wouldn't be surprised, but I’m glad.”

Castiel looked down, watched as Dean’s hand smoothed over his freckled wrist, and then reached out and put his own hand over it, stopping Dean’s movements. 

“I...” Castiel thought about leaving. In a few days, going back to his small apartment, back to mopping the floors at night, and sleeping through the day in his small hard bed, and talking to no one. He thought of how Dean’s thumb had moved back and forth over his back when he shook after the nightmare, and he was filled with just... _wanting_. Wanting to stay, to be here with Dean and with Sam, and to not be lonely anymore. “I want to stay.”

Dean had stilled when Cas had touched him, and from the angle, Castiel imagined he could feel Dean’s pulse. He swallowed, and looked up after a long moment. Dean was smiling softly. 

“Good,” He finally said, his voice a little rough. “That’s...that’s good. Of course, man.” 

Castiel pulled away, rubbing a hand over his face. Relief was moving through him, and tension he didn’t even realize he was feeling was fading from his neck and shoulders. Dean patted the table, and then started. 

“Shit!” He stood, and hurried back to the stove. “The soup!”

He’d broken the moment of awkwardness that even Castiel could feel, and something about that was funny to Cas. He chuckled, as Dean stirred the soup, and tasted it, still swearing. 

“Don’t you laugh. This is dinner.” Dean said.

“I’m sure it will be delicious, Dean. Your cooking always is.”

The back of Dean’s neck flushed a bit, and Castiel hid another smile. 

“Yeah, well, I hope you’re hungry. I’m trying a new recipe.” 

Castiel smiled. 

“I’ll look forward to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well everyone, thank you so much for reading, liking, and reviewing. I really appreciated all of it, even if I didn't respond to your review personally. Big hugs and thank yous! Life has been really insane the past few months, with my housing, roommates, job and social life just suddenly going nuts or just imploding, but things should be better now, and your reviews and kindness really made some days brighter.   
> Enough personal stuff. This story started as just scribbling out headcanons of what Cas had been up to since the Kindness of Strangers oneshot (found on my page). I was just curious, but then he was at work, and a demon showed up and said 'here, have a plot' and shoved it down my throat. So, I got this out in between life and trying to write an original novel as well. Like I said, life's been insane. 
> 
> Opinions on future plot starts here:  
> Castiel's journey of trying to live on his own is what I strongly feel will (/should) happen in the show. If Cas goes crawling back to Dean, then their relationship would never be the same. They'd never be equals the way they need to be. Cas needs to find some independence, and come to terms with himself without help from someone as close as Dean. He's a prideful little bastard, and it would make him feel worse about himself than he already does. If Cas goes back to Dean, I believe we will see End!Verse Cas. Ironically, the best thing for Cas is the worst thing for Dean. Dean, who only ever wants Cas to stay, to choose to stay...if he gets Cas back too soon, it will be to push under the rug every issue they have between them to take care of him. We've seen do this with Sam, and it always blows up later. It's tragic.
> 
> Other notes:  
> The chapter headings are from Adam Lindsay Gordon's poem, "Wormwood And Nightshade", The title is the the official name of the plant called Common Wormwort, or Mugwort, an invasive weed in North America, originating from Europe, Asia, and Africa.


End file.
